One year

It's one year,
And the daffodil stands in the lawn.

A neighbour sends a photograph.
She knows.

We watch you on the video,
Your little brown eyes looking around.

And we pause to think about you.

God, broken

At church, I spoke
It was different this time
I tried to be honest, to be me.

I said that God seemed distant
It's hard to enter the city of refuge
When you can't see where it is.

Afterwards, a friend, made a point to talk to me:
"Your conception of God must be broken
To find out what is real, beneath".

And now, as I sit in church, in a new country
I am confused by the curious language and odd practice
And amazed by the cherry blossom on the tree outside: is that God?

Why do we do these things?
Strange rituals, largely empty
And sit lonely, all believing something else to be true, really.

I have a son, two years old
And he is wonder, and wonderful
I see God in him, clearly.

Postman

(a poem from earlier)

I stood at the window
and watched the postman
counting the letters
and folding them up
to shove in the letterbox.

I go to collect them
not to welcome our baby to the world
but cards of sympathy and loss.

I hold your hand in mine

On the day you were born,
in the first hour -
the plaster man came to the room
to make molds
of your hands and feet
as we held you in our arms.

And now
Six months after you've gone
I hold your hand in mine
Your tiny hand
The very image
of your hands and feet
in plaster.

I turn your hand this way and that
Examining all the tiny details
The fingers, the lines.

Is this all we have?
The very substance of you
In white plaster
A shape, a form
Which was your imprint on the world,
Like words you left for us -
Your mark, more powerful than any writing.

I hold your hand in mine
And I am reminded of you
And you make me pause for a moment -
I am still and I say nothing
I just look at your hands and your feet
and I feel.