(in memory of Agnes Plummer Schroyer, 1883-1921)
This is not everything––
Cold moment under the sheet
And whispers by the door,
Flowers, this glassy fall.
Do not believe them.
How could I leave
You most of all, before breakfast,
With the smell of sun
Filling the kitchen
And the beds unmade?
Would I run barefoot downstairs,
Into the garden without my glasses?
Would I go without telling you everything,
Everything?
Your hair ribbons tremble.
Cries skim over the pool
Of the dream of my departure.
Hush. do not believe them.
You must wait by the new lettuce.
It will come up bearing
Love in my own hand.
You must listen to soup and light rain
For news of me.
On Christmas morning you will be gently
Slipping the bow from your father's gift
(Such a careful child)
You will glance out the window for only a moment
(The bow will be almost off)
And see my hair, my red, red hair,
Beautifully piled on top of my head.
You will see light through my muslin sleeves,
My gold heart ticking in the snow.
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