The Farm

Saturdays mornings will never be the same.
We buried her on a Saturday morning.

The boys launch onto our bed,
rejoicing that it is not a school day,
and it is warm enough to visit the farm.

Spring has been trying to arrive,
and I have mixed feelings about this.

I remember 12 months ago,
when I knowingly smiled
and encouraged the first buds from eager flowers
to show their colors to the world.

We were talking about her then,
inviting God to put his hands around
one tiny cell
and breathe a new soul into our family.

We talk about her now, too,
inviting God to put his hands around
the new soul He made
but could not protect here on earth.

Now those tiny flowers trying to bloom
make me nervous.
Early spring feels like a continuation of winter —
I worry about a late snowfall
for those tiny flowers popping up along the sidewalk.

We arrive at the farm
and herd our children from animal to animal,
trying to find joy
in a converted old red barn house.

I pass by the mama pig
feeding her young so smugly,
and I seethe at her.
I seethe at all the other creatures
who did last year what I could not.

Going to the farm will never be the same.

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