I dressed her wound
after the biopsy
a scarlet braid laced with black thread.
She was alone, but spoke of her father at her bedside
attending a bowl of water and sand,
pulling out stars.
He pinned them in her hair
and stayed until I cut the suture.
the feathery wood
long after the procession,
and the blue oak,
and his ashes
spilling over the ground
The moon softly
dripping pearls across the lake.
The hyacinth folding its breast
against the honeyed earth.