Patience

I

Will I know from the way his knuckle raps

on the old oak door, how the wood sings

in the August air as a mockingbird might

or how the Clark’s rubber sole of his boot

beats lightly on the stone step?

If the bell rings clear, he’ll rush the room

and catch me up in his grip, press my nest

to his stomach and kiss my hair, humming

into my forehead the first notes of a lullaby.

II

Mum stitched my blue dress from scraps

rolled and folded, wrapped in wax paper

and tucked between Sunday shoes

and an old oak box locked.

For the neck, she brought out a letter

with preaching tabs between the sheets.

Sister Anne’s austere print signed off

with love and blessings for Confirmation.

I wore the dress that Sunday ceremony,

my slim blue figure a stain in the aisle.

III

Imagine balloons rising from the palms of children

and pitching north on the tide, how easy they drift

without looking down at the bone-pale peaks

of the mountains. Imagine unlocking your box

of wishes. Watch them pull away at the wind’s

hand. Try not to mind where they land.