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Veiled Anniversary
by Cesca Janece Waterfield Your daughter raised her arm to me: a peony, supine and creamy in her tiny fist. It was one month since our first afternoon when she rang the bell and you hid to wait my answer. We were still beginning. Though you'd left her mother in your neat home with her garden only long enough to bring me this bloom, you took roost on my porch, and crowed about artists in love, how distance unites in weeds grown wild beyond the edge. Your baby giggled up at her radiant father, and I stood laughing and took all of it in, open to whatever we were fated, because it was so ludicrous, and so lovely, so far. Back
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