Wait by the Door

What a most peculiar girl who led me to the attic,
with her butterfly love and her parasol twirl.

"Where is my small boy's glove," she asked,
when her heart was beating slow.

"There's still time to play baseball in my small boy's world.
And for all I know, his glove should be where I left it years ago."

And the sun in its mercy will follow him home.
The toy giraffes will quench his thirst.
Remember to use your time to say goodbye alone,
and wait by the door if you get to the party first.

"Wait by the door," she said, among her music box splinters--
her scattered diaries of lost romance.
The dying postcards of the rainy winters
all wait by the door like a crystal ball trance.

What a most peculiar girl who led me to the attic,
with her pebbled hand and her flower skirt.

"Where are my small girl's first words," she asked,
when her life was ebbing low.

"She's still got room for the strawberry dessert.
And for all I know, her first words should be where I left them years ago."

And the sun in its mercy will follow her home.
The toy giraffes will quench her thirst.
Remember to use your time to say goodbye alone,
and wait by the door if you get to the party first.

{In memory of the mother of Danielle Olivia Tefft}