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Once again, we are on the road early,

driving to see our son

wrestle with cancer for gold.

Clouds fall like a heavy eyelid

over the eastern sky, crowding

the tender light against the horizon”

healthy crimson, healthy orange compressed

by gray as thick as

blasts in leukemic marrow.

Birds fly everywhere before us: electrons

energized to higher shells by

the meager dawn. Life will, life must,

make do on little.

What do you think of all the beauty

squandered along this mournful road?

Tragedy may induce myopia.

Still, I notice the distant trees

like a remembrance of your hair; the young

light on a field, the color

of your neck; and the

unseen sun’s halo, dark and

pink as your areola.

Turning on the radio, I hear

Billy Graham preach Christ crucified and

raised as God’s sufficient grace, and I think

of our son clinging gracefully to life like

the stubborn leaves of

red November oaks