All We Can See

To watch my daughters in the garden,
to heed them scattering seeds, pebbles,

 grains of sand and dust, detritus 
dropped from the ceiling of the world. 

To see in this small scene, the universe:
they are perambulating planets 

circling their sun, scooping and flinging
stars; the curved willow, a milky way;

its fallen leaves, stardust.
They are wading in stardust. 

Then, to imagine they are microscopic:
my varied offspring–one proton,

one neutron–electrifying each other, 
a shimmying nucleus encircled. 

Or–to notice only what is: this 
violet iris, those braids of hair, 

the friction of play making flyaways
flicker in the fading sun.

These red bricks–no–this spectrum
of color: coral, russet, rouge

brushed with beige mortar.
This bench that holds my gravity.

The horizon’s glow almost gone 
as the girls stride up the steps.

The lights of night now punching through
the blue-black sky, their particles

 ever descending upon our atmosphere.
We are all waiting in stardust.

Originally published in Peacock Journal. To read this and several of Mary’s other poems at Peacock Journal, click here.