Of It All

Sprays of flowers bathed within shafts of sunlight
reminds me of a time when my head lied, sandbagged,
unsure whether I would ever see spring's true rays.

This moment of not-knowing crept up on me,
stalking like a butler, an uncertainty in my blackest
nights that served a thought darker still.

In those cold moments I had to imagine my daughter rise,
my wife grow old with grace, and wonder: does voice alone
convey such things? Will it be enough?

Now awakened by my child's puppy breath, battered
by her arms that flail in dreams, I am amidst blue pitch,
stand up, let the dawn pump life into limbs, walk

out to where pines are sentries, feel its needles,
ones browned by the August heat, let them puncture
and redden my pink skin, and revel in the sight

of it all.