That girl (she was small)
delivered
as only a child does
a character—
of a child
arms out as crucifix
to bear a cumbersome
cumbersome jacket.
How she would love that word,
cumbersome cumbersome
because she’s a child and
it rumbles round the cheeks.
Mother-love is kneeling
affixing zippers and such and
little lark leans in:
eery how more perfect is
a small face than a large
a human than an adult.
Through that glass door only
her breath-fire-fog
spirals out along the winter light
and she will roll away
unknowing; she has left
this place in
new sad silence.