I know you laughed the day you first were told
that you would have a son who would
shine like a star above the desert.
I know you stepped into that story like a
dancer to a song. I know you leapt inside
to hear your husband tell it.
I know you did.
I know you did and I know why.
I know you’re waiting like that first year
and the next and the next and the next
with nothing more to hold than just a promise.
I know you hide ‘cause you’re embarrassed.
I know you cry because it hurts. I know you laugh
because you’re angry when you’re honest.
I know you do.
I know you do and I know why.
So you, here in this land between
the ocean and the verdant green,
you lie there like a barren stream
of dust, except for tears.
Your husband says the earth, it groans.
He feels it in his failing bones.
But this is not for you alone,
so Sarah, in a year
I know you’ll wake before the morning
in a haze of sleepy peace. I know you’ll
slip into that room beside the kitchen.
I know you’ll reach into that woven willow bed
beside the fire. I know you’ll laugh,
I know you’ll laugh and kiss his cheek
I know you will.
I know you will and I know why.