A family of glassblowers, a river road
unturned to loam. Sing the molt
to second skin, layer, the wings
found on our lawn like petals before fruit.
In spring, in bloom, in lantern
given by a child, in light
flimsy as wax paper, come violent
as storms in youth, come melancholia yellow
lilies thrown at your feet by a lover,
the father, the rose, come starless dusk
draped in orange shutters, carnations
in parade, come inside, mother
says, show me what you’ve made.