You loved children.
You taught vacation bible school in the summers.
You worked on the church nativity scenes,
but what I want to know
what I need to know
is that, just once
and maybe more than once
you opened your arms, simply
and spun, breathed summer
and tasted winter under your tongue
like something metal.
Maybe you fell in love in ninth grade
with the boy who sat in front of you in algebra,
wanted to wrap the hair
touching the back of his collar
around your fingers
at least one time,
and I hope once you danced
with that boy or another like him,
slowly, to some pop beat
but a slow one,
and I hope that once
you walked in a field heavy with poppies
or daisies, or asters,
or whatever blooms in that hot dust
they covered you with
before you were done breathing.