The boy who lived a day died years ago,
and now his mother has died.
We buried her last month.
This morning we dug a hole almost to the lid
of her coffin, then lowered the baby’s coffin in.
It was sitting in the wet morning grass,
a small white box, exhumed and flown to us.
His father is shoveling back the muddy earth.
It’s spring, quiet and green. In the woods,
the wild iris is blooming.
And on every purple petal there is a white
feather, and on every white feather
there is a stroke of yellow, as if someone
has quickly brushed it on.