Scribble-scrabble of sky--the mother
parachutes through the blue.
(Hold your breath, child.)
Listen: there will be noise and death,
salt and teeth. There will be awful
weather. Your heart, if you are lucky,
will be broken; if you are very lucky,
will be broken more than once.
But for now, sweet girl, just come to me,
sit here, my love, let me braid your hair.
The stars, remember, are cruel but fair.