The Visitation

              Sky fills

with three or four seahorses.

Everything blue, green and shimmering,

            everything.

Tiny fathers who mother
to life the unborn, float across

our field of vision, radiating pure joy.

They are a July rainfall,

surprising us completely

here on top of a picnic table,

our two mothers taken by cancer years’ ago.

I roll over, come home into morning’s

body, happy the only word I know

or can say.