queen anne’s lace
is held in place
by eighteen miles of nothing
but promise
that I might be coming
home

before a prayer
can get me there –
too late for Sunday supper
an empty plate
and someone waits
the night

gazing out on dusty fields
as whispers to the dark
ten thousand
precious wishes
for a star

as feathers fall
to quiet –
an angel on the pond
blessings weight
the memory
of every love
I’ve known

. . .