for Jonathan

Stone not yet placed, but weeds
fill in. New home, extra room.
Crib, unused, still up and dressed.

Earlier, the breeze unseasonably
cool. Now, melted sun-pelts splash
across shoulders, drizzle down backs. 

See the family ringed around
the site, fingers intertwined,
prayer whispered:

One who carried him into
the world for three seasons. 
Another who carried him out
in a tiny white case. 
Delicate daughter, able
to comprehend.
First son, tow-headed two-
year-old I think I must be,  

Who, moments later, will run off
to twirl a pinwheel. Will scoop up
the small American flag blown loose
onto a narrow hallway of grass,
then wait for feedback.

©Janet Lynn Davis

First published in The Penwood Review, 2005.

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