Linda Ann Loschiavo
My youngest sisterís dying first. Thatís not
How itís supposed to be ó ó thoughts I push hard,
Harder, the small soprano in the swing
Flying to greet the blue with her high C.
She has her motherís eyes, and begs for more
With promises she will hold on! ó ó a good girl
Whoís never-never-bound. Soon she wonít fit
In this contraption, chubby legs too close
Already to the frame. Iíve just explained:
Some things grow fast like cedars ó ó massing thick
Enough to matter, so strong they repel
Most other forces. High above us now
Cedars shield us from wind, block the cold rooms
Where promise grows, exposing flesh closer
To bones, a chest without hope, a matter
Of time. Trees near this playground stir, newborn.
Swift cedar waxwings bring their young treats, greet
A vast horizon, optimistic might,
As I try pushing so much weight away.
A girl on a swing, returns to me, again, again,
Protected, safe, and saved. Hold on, my love. Hold on!