Mark this visit made on your second birthday:
April 29, pale Tuesday, clouds gathering,
cool. I wandered through a day plain as
mud—early waking to chill rooms unwarmed
by sleeping sun, spare breakfast (tea,
English muffin), three futile hours at the
desk, then slow trudge to trudging library
job. Not a bad day but hardly good, average at best.
Till this—your sudden arrival
as I walked home through late-afternoon
shower. The rain was expected, came on the
heels of darkening sky, thunder, lightning.
You were a surprise. I’d seen you only
half-a-dozen times and not for months. Any
one of several nearer guards might’ve risen
to carry me home. But they didn’t; you did.
Came to me like this—tottering after
the dog on uncooperative legs threatening
collapse, your face alive, framed by loops
of feather hair, caught in perpetual pause
between shriek and utter smile: perfect gift.
Offered to me, here, molded from cold
drops of gray rain. You stayed for the half-
mile to my steps, didn’t speak but remained
close radiating warmth, tangible heat flowing
like a stream murmuring “Revive. Revive.”
Safely delivered, freshly born, I paused at
my door. The rain stopped, you disappeared,
and a rainbow rose against brightening sky.
That fervent arc ends only where you are,
everywhere you are. I follow it still,
sufficient cause for hope.