When I want to think
“Life can get no worse than this,”
It is a lie.
While I can’t begin to imagine a You Who Created
This morning, through my small window
I see each tree is filled with so much sun
It becomes a sun itself. Leaf-light winces off the current of cars.
I see my mother following behind
Because she will not lose me in this traffic.
Because she will not lose me.
Though I let myself run lost.
This poem originally ran in the March 24, 2011, issue of the magazine.
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