Daughter
A daughter is not a passing cloud, but permanent,
holding earth and sky together with her shadow.
She sleeps upstairs like mystery in a story,
blowing leaves down the stairs, then cold air, then warm.
We who at sixty should know everything, know nothing.
We become dull and disoriented by uncertain weather.
We kneel, palms together, before this blossoming altar.
Copyright Credit: Poem copyright ©2007 by James P. Lenfestey from his most recent book of poetry, A Cartload of Scrolls, Holy Cow! Press, 2007. Reprinted by permission of the author.