bubbles, image by ddimitrova, on Pixabay
The Leap Is Where Saints Dwell
Concrete tables wrapped
in primary colors and a happy
birthday banner resist the gray,
mud from overnight rain.
Bubble maker and guests arrive
late to the ceremonial.
My daughter so gravely
wants her son to act his part.
How old was she when
I learned? She does not belong
to me. Children, timid,
approach, but he ignores them,
clings, begs for cake. I watch
her fall into a well of worry
and stop myself at the edge.
The heartbreak is, she must leave
the earth behind and trust him.
The clouds briefly open
and allow the sun to find
our neighborhood park.
He detaches, joins
beautiful chaos, children
reaching for bubbles that drift
up on the light wind. “It’s a good
party?” she asks, and I agree.
The heartbreak is, acute love
that holds her to the earth
where he lives, betting her soul
on every breath. The leap is where
saints dwell.
_____________________
Therese Kosterman is an emerging poet and native Californian, whose work is inspired by her Catholic upbringing, nature, reading, heartbreak, and beloved family, friends, and strangers.
Comments