I 

Some of us stood together 
on your star-gray lawn, 
sang you Christmas carols 
in the warm California air. 
You stood under the porchlight; 
your arms, illuminated, 
around the yellowing infant, 
kept your son from blowing away. 
Our voices thinned behind the hedges 
and down the street. 
You tucked his feet into the drawstring gown 
and said, “Thank you for coming here 
in this darkness to sing.” 

II 

These flowers on the table do not know a child is dead. 
I take the stern stems of lilacs and anemones 
and stab them through the narrow neck. 
The pedals fall open, brilliantly indifferent. 
The leaves are slick, the water clear. 
Tomorrow the sky will be the color of blue smoke. 
I will bring you this vase in the daylight. 
Your eyes will thank me. 
I will walk away, remembering the wooden carols 
last December and your quiet arms.