by Carole Stone

She looks up at the child as if afraid
He will disappear. He looks down

to sprinkle the blossoms in her hair.
The ball of sun lights up His innocent face.

The boy’s small body may never grow old.
O, window on this world

that is ours, what will remain?
O, maternal love, how will you flower?

Is this painting about birth or death?
Who has slept on the unmade bed?

---

Carole Stone is a Distinguished Professor of English and Creative Writing, emerita, Montclair State University. She has published five books of poetry. Her recent poems have appeared in Sequestrum, Presence, A Catholic Journal, and Blue Fifth Review.