I write for the same reason I believe
the Word became flesh: I will die.
Each poem brings me hours
closer to breathlessness, to leaving
a record of words like a line
of mourners. God, forgive my vanity
in wanting remembrance—help me
channel praise to the wellspring.
And if I die while my child
is too young to know me beyond
comforts of face, voice, touch,
may she find me later in lines
rendering what shimmers.
Daughter, perch there with me
like those goldfinches in trees
outside this silver-streaked window
where we sit together,
watching through rain for spring.
—Shanna Powlus Wheeler
Copyright © 2014 by the author or Christianity Today/Books & Culture magazine.Click here for reprint information on Books & Culture.
