Day 347

In her dreams she has both her arms.
She holds them over her head, catches
the wind as it rides through high leaves.
There are high leaves again, orchards
that bloom with sweet fruit in her dreams
that she can reach for, pluck
what she wants, bring it
to her lips.  In her dreams her arms
are waves, they flow and drift
and touch the shore.  In her dreams
she can hold anything:  the heavy
stones that rebuild her house,
her sister’s frailness, her father’s
able hands. She strokes one arm
with the other hand, feels the coolness
of her own flesh, the small hairs, taut muscles.
These were the arms that grew inside her mother.
These were the arms she used to grasp her life.