Thirteen Attempts at Starting a Poem, Which Will Never Be Finished

I.

When we were young
our limbs reached up towards heaven
and came back empty-handed,
but wet with rain.

II.
Children stand around
in my backyard,
pointing at my stained-glass window
as the sun streams on their freckled faces.

III.
I was working on a tree fort
in my backyard, with a hammer
in one hand and the other empty.
Jennifer came out to say we lost the baby.

IV.
The man at the hardware store,
who helped me find the plywood
and long nails, asked what they were for.
“I want to build him a home closer to heaven”.

V.
I worried, as I climbed the ladder,
that this would be too high for him
even with sturdy walls and a railing.
My son will not tremble at his height.

VI.
Her face, as she spoke up to me
through the leaves, trembled
with unwilling certainty.
I was waking up again.

VII.
Black coffee in the dark kitchen
makes the morning focus.
Birdsong fights the radio
for ownership of background noise.

VIII.
Before getting out of bed this morning
I curled up beside Jennifer. Inhaling
her dark hair, I traced the shape
of her full belly with my empty hand.

IX.
When we were young
we built people out of clay
and named our cloth toys,
who were only alive as long as we held them.

X.
The dirt in the backyard was soft
beneath the blade of the shovel.
Digging away at the world was revenge
for having nothing to bury.

XI.
From home to my office,
the highway was empty
the sun was born silent
the sun was born still

XII.
We are gathered here today
to remember our anticipation,
keeping him alive in our blessed
willingness.

XIII.
When we were young
we asked where babies
come from, and your answer
made it sound so simple.