Pantoum For A Lost Child
You in the cold and wrapped in winter lace,
The wind with grace moves down the cheerless field.
I cannot send you sun except my heart.
My tears impede the vision of your face.
Within the broken row
With field firm hands
You fashioned me from clay.
And placed the bless’ed seeds,
I cannot say completely what I feel.
Winter has come and robbed me of my breath.
But wait till Spring and once again I’ll steal
Across some field, some barren yard of death