Fingers and toes begin like kernels of corn and pods of peas, making

the grown ones giggle and coo. I never knew any of you

when the world introduced you and you were so new. God kept count

of each inhale that brought you closer to Fate and every exhale

that propelled you closer to Heaven. I counted on my fingers

and then my toes, the number of times I found you

through the laughter of your words, hiding in the shed to ward off the rooster

or skating down the thin ice on the smallest of hills, your shoe soles

not enough to keep you rooted and upright. The hands that dug

the ditch so well that could never be promoted. The gentle man

that played cards at the firehouse, waiting for a turn at the hose.

The many that have scattered seeds that scattered seeds, or fell

where they would never germinate. Each of you will harvest me

like a fruit so ripe on the vine, a blossom that conquers Winter.

And in this way I will be yours. I will be yours as I so rarely was

since the beginning of my day.

© Tina Zabielski 2011-2019