the dead smell the rain gives
to bunches of cut lilac
in bay windowed living rooms
is another version of the skull
your mouth feels when you kiss
a lover's or a child's clear forehead
but these are impetuous blue
upon the stems that throng
the vase's throat and splay from it
half captive or as free
as wands of light the recent sun
by peering wetly forth outside
has interspersed among them
divining paths like ours in time
that sprawl and gather haltingly
towards the next blind cervix
of the grave the best of us
will shoulder through with joy
first of my
grandchildren
sleepy girl
wrapped in flannel
so only her soft head
and shut eyes showed
and I wept
at her birth
in what seemed
the last days
of the old earth
of placidity
our time
spoken with our voice
before history closed
and I would say
to her sibling
next to arrive
we don't know
what it is
we welcome you to
without trust
without a common
dream of freedom
eventually you will need
a passport
to be born
©Tony Beyer, 2007