Notes from the Vanishing World

Our unborn baby was a painting
begun in another lifetime.

Miles of plum trees sunlight-wet.
Wild horses wandering the rows,

eyes wide-set and black,
their faces masks.

Alone with my easel,
there is no orchard–

just fog in the shape
of an empty field.

Sky electric with thunderheads,
I imagine god’s heart

shot from every angle.
Paint quickly,

before we disappear again–
Too transparent to move,

the other-world foal,
radiant, stares back.

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