For my daughter


Soon after we emerge into
the seen world,
the Earth-mind sets
sail and we don't
want it back,

but the world says
"Here, you need this,
don't argue, take
it, stop crying, don't
dream too much . . ."

If I'm sorry for anything
it's that you never
wrote your story the
way you wanted it told
and I didn't
see you more often
in the star fields you
knew better than
anyone.

The throng of
shape-shifting legends
you outshine lost something
boundless when you left
for the city
and discovered that
the world spares us nothing,

but this star trail I've
walked countless times
remembers you—

like an icon worn out
by kisses,
the sky dust is still
holy art:
the visible side of Heaven.

When God said I could
borrow you
for a minute,
why didn't I fall to my
knees in veneration?

Strange sketches of trees,
the noble dog up the road,
even the planets you
showed me, my dear Jupiter,
like saintly apparitions
through a lens . . .

All creation is microscopic
against this thought:

A breathing prayer
was once in my arms
and everything worth anything
was in that minute.


Patricia Joan Jones


My daughter's screen name is Jupiter.