And Then There Was Light

With your hands wrist-deep

in the black of

loamy soil, you tell me your

infant daughter died

at break of dawn,

on a day that our

star arose

without hindering cloud;

and you mused that early morning,

as you sadly went and found her,

stiff as a Hasbro doll,

her unblinking eyes

locked upon the ceiling,

that to call it “sun” is a misnomer,

for it’s connected to Mother Earth,

and either “u” or “o”, it says the same

masculine thing.

It's the female 

that reproduces,

you said, gives seeds

a place to call home.

“Daughter,” you decreed,

call it Daughter. 

It will surely love us more

and our longing will be greater

on the days it isn’t there.

Andreas Gripp

RF Image