we followed light to the hospital, light that spilled sideways from the sky like marmelade from a jar while the car yawned exhaust

and i thought of our tree, still up, for i’ve been unable to take it down, this birth of christ, this disassembling of the best time of year, because it’s growing

in spite of being dead, its boughs sprout new life and “i’ve never seen that before” says trent’s dad, a farmer who’s seen everything

and the light spills sidways and the tree sprouts new and we arrive and wait expectant in a room full of brittle, aching bones

i think of elijah and wouldn’t he want to sit among these kind wrinkles and command new life and isn’t this christmas? the sprouting amidst the dying?

i lie on the bed and she presses scope slimey cold and she seems just as cold and i have to ask, “have you seen the baby?” and she tells me she’s not allowed to say anything, i’ll have to wait to ask my doctor, and i want to cry, bite bottom lip and stare up, count the tiles,

believe in the life that spills light and sprouts new, and ask God to soften her, please, make her heart warm

and at the end of a very long wait she turns the screen and says, i thought you might want to see this, and it’s my baby, and “it’s grown,” i say, and she says, “that is good” and i think, yes, this is good

there is life
amidst the dead, there is life

i still sit confined until doctor tells me move, but i’ll do anything to keep this baby living
i’ll keep the tree up

i’ll water it and watch it grow
and i don’t want to miss a miracle being born

(praising him, thanking him for you… for your prayers… and join me? tomorrow? for imperfect prose? loving you…)