Sarah, in a Year

I know you laughed the day when you first learned
that you would have a son who would
shine like a star above the desert.
I know you stepped into that story like a
dancer to a song. I know you leapt inside
to hear your husband tell it.
I know you did.

I know you’re waiting like that first year—
and the many after—with nothing
more for you to hold than just the promise.
I know you hide ’cause you’re embarrassed.
I know you cry because it hurts. I know you laugh
because you’re angry when you’re honest.
I know you do.

So you, here in this land between
the ocean and the verdant green,
you lie here like a barren stream
of dust, except for tears.
And your husband says the earth, it groans.
He feels it in his failing bones.
He swears to you you’re not alone,
and Sarah, you are not alone.
Sarah, in a year

I know you’ll wake before the morning
in a haze of sleepy peace. I know you’ll
slip into that room beside the kitchen.
I know you’ll reach into that woven willow bed
beside the fire. I know you’ll laugh.
I know you’ll laugh and then you’ll kiss him.
I know you will.