Now the lights coiled white in dogwood trees, now the graying father at the door,
now the wooden angels on the walls.

Now the suitcase in the childhood room, now the glow stars dead on the ceiling,
now the dog that barks at nothing.

Now the forsythia shedding its opposite leaves, now the sky lifting its hoary lid,
now the cardinal blushing the maple.

Now the groceries in unfamiliar places, now the bent faces on the refrigerator door,
now the recipe unfolded like a prayer.

Now the cornbread casserole between us, now the empty hands unclasped,
now the wine without its blood.

Now the sleepless midnight, now the firewood breaking down black and white,
now the glass burning.

Now the Sunday morning under sleep, now the mother’s song outside my door,
now the hymns a half-step down
from what I remember.

Danielle Weeks