again: newborn baby,
glistening mother, father;
no longer to wait
for rescue. Every breath is prayer,
thanksgiving, star-linings, coloring.
Her eyes fall back to the coloring
on the wall: a mural of children, ending
with the serenity prayer
in the corner. The things I cannot change. Her baby
in the room, lungs pried by tubes. Wait
upon the Lord, like Abraham, father
of many babies. Our Father,
who art in heaven, coloring
the air with presence, angels like lilies wait
on you. For thine is the power. Enough ending
for now. The size of her hand, this baby,
this lily, the magnitude of her prayer.
David had been here, too, becoming prayer,
a heap of sackcloth, no father,
no water, interceding, all for his, his baby,
who could pray only with a cough, coloring
everything with gray and stillness, and in days, ending,
weightless, the wait.
What to do in the waiting room, but wait, and wait,
and in waiting, find that waiting is prayer,
and prayer is the beginning and ending
and middle of the unpartitioned Father;
dimensionless light coloring
existences and lives alike. Her pale baby,
eyes closed. Lily-white baby,
flying wherever she will. A hymn too: We wait
for Thee 'midst toil and pain, something-something sighing. Coloring
drains. It shouldn't be like this. Hannah's prayer
answered, and now David's prayer hanging, father-
ing the night. It can be only God's ending.
Another baby cough, fragrant prayer,
to wait more patiently upon the Father
of all photons, coloring, becoming, ending.
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