2, 3, 4
Goldenrod and the 4H stone,
the things I brought you
when I found out you had cancer of the bone.
Your father cried on the telephone
and he drove his car into the Navy yard
just to prove that he was sorry.
In the morning, through the window shade,
when the light pressed up against your shoulder blade,
I could see what you were reading.
All the glory that the Lord has made
and the complications you could do without
when I kissed you on the mouth.
Tuesday night at the Bible study,
we lift our hands and pray over your body
but nothing ever happens.
I remember at Michael's house
in the living room, when you kissed my neck
and I almost touched your blouse.
In the morning, at the top of the stairs,
when your father found out what we did that night
and you told me you were scared.
All the glory when you ran outside
with your shirt tucked in and your shoes untied
and you told me not to follow you.
Sunday night, when I clean the house
I find the card where you wrote it out
with the pictures of your mother.
On the floor at the great divide
with my shirt tucked in and my shoes untied
I am crying in the bathroom.
In the morning when you finally go
and the nurse runs in with her head hung low
and the cardinal hits the window.
In the morning, in the winter shade,
on the first of March, on the holiday,
I thought I saw you breathing.
All the glory that the Lord has made
and the complications when I see his face
in the morning in the window.
All the glory when he took our place,
but he took my shoulders and he shook my face.
And he takes, and he takes, and he takes...
