I wonder, now, only when it will happen, 
when the young mother will hear the 
noise like somebody's pressure cooker 
down the block, going off. She'll go out on the yard, 
holding her small daughter in her arms,
and there, above the end of the street, in the 
air above the line of the trees, 
she will see it rising, lifting up 
over the horizon, the upper rim of the
gold ball, large as a giant 
planet starting to lift up over ours. 
She will stand there in the yard holding her daughter, 
looking at it rise and glow and blossom and rise, 
and the child will open her arms to it, 
it will look so beautiful.


 = Linsay Rousseau