For My Daughter, the Theologian

All that is left

is yellow now.

And brown.

Far off, a truck

climbs up some hill

to town.

Acorns on the path.

Winter coming down

from Canada.

Dying comes to mind,

and resurrection.



In the hospital last fall

resurrection came

by power of machine.

I tell myself that this will be

a gentler fall by far.

But there’s a random culling

in the universe. The fox, the

falcon—machinery of muscle,

tooth and claw.

Resurrection seems

at best

an afterthought,

and death the law.



Last autumn death gave you

profound consideration

and then turned away.

I beg you, child in love

with mystery,

stay.

Don’t go.

You’ll learn soon enough

all you need to know

of death. Meanwhile,

rest in your first small resurrection.

Death, after all, may be common

and resurrection odd

but for now, lay down your research.

Wrap yourself unquestioning

in the afterthought of God.