Mother of Ten Lost in a Fire of No One's Choosing

If children are fingers, your hands
are stumps, inarticulate as grief,
palms upward for the crucifixion.

If babes are toes, how you must hobble
with your bag of memories down
that fated lonely road.

If sons are saviors I lag behind
but never losing sight of you-
wait for me, I'll point the way.

Glen Woodard
April 1983