Requiem For a Little Girl

I stand poised like Abraham
with her tender body stretched out
on the altar before me,
praying any moment the Angel will appear
to tell me this is just a test.

But the Angel does not come.

And how am I to tell her?

Her innocent face beams up at me
as she tells me of the marvels of the forest,
her fingers still purple from the wild grapes
she has been harvesting there.

She doesn’t seem to notice she has been tethered
to this altar set hard upon the earth.

And who am I to tell her?

I’ve watched her from afar,
making her way across the meadow
gathering endless bouquets of wild flowers,
pausing with tilted head to capture the breeze,
so carefully absorbed in memorizing
the rustle of the leaves and
the evening’s report of the catbird.

And I’ve seen her return home again,
cradling the meadows and the woods
so gently so as not to spill
one single drop of dew
nor one sweet note of the wood thrush.

For these are her offerings,
the only medicine she has.
She doesn’t know that
her medicine won’t work this time.

And I don’t have the heart to tell her.

So I stroke her hair while she sings
the songs she hopes to teach him
wondering how I will ever find the words to
comfort her when this little girl with berry-stained fingers
is left cradling the remains of her brother in her arms.

And still she speaks to me of Springtime
with its trout lilies and trillium.

How can I speak to her of ephemeral
when all she sees is Eternal?

Laura Young, 2005

Comments

[Erin]

Oh, I like seeing this here.