When I woke I thought the sun was shining,
but it was only the overhead light
burning in my daughter’s pink and white room.
Grey light filtered through the leaves of the ash
that tapped on my bedroom window all night
making me dream of rain. I drew the blinds
on the tear-streaked morning, the muddy light,
the ash. I stepped across the hall to find
my daughter fingerpainting on the wall,
her hand a rainbow in mid-air. Still drenched
in dreams of loss, I leaned in the doorway
and watched her paint, one after another,
a yellow sun
shining on a red house
next to a green tree
by a white bridge
crossing a blue river.
Rachel Crawford is a writer, teacher, and editor whose poems and stories appear in Red Rock Review, Mudlark, Lucid Rhythms, The Lyric, Figures of Speech, Apeiron Review, Red River Review, The Yellow Chair Review, Illya’s Honey, Freshwater Poetry Journal, Adanna Literary Journal (forthcoming), Literary Juice, The Wayfarer: A Journal of Contemplative Literature, Anima Poetry Journal, Crack the Spine, Her Texas, Rock & Sling: A Journal of Witness, and RiverSedge. She lives in central Texas with her husband and daughter.