for Sheila
The March afternoon when Mom gave me the breakable angel
I placed it high on the mantle where its “Hallelujah! He is Risen!”
could always be seen, especially in spring
when the days start cool, then warm into full sun
when the light is longer
when grass is conquered by color. Who can call a bluebonnet delicate
when it grows in the most god-forsaken ditches?
It takes some strength to bloom where no one planted you.
I pick up the angel when — oh, look!
She’s missing a hand.
When did that happen? How did I not notice? Surely I didn’t throw it away?
That’s how fragile motherhood is. You can lose a hand and not know it.
