by Lee Upton

That day
the holly was hers,
the holly shining
with red berries,
the holly with its greenness and redness.
She drew the holly,
the sharp edges of the holly,
the crayon smell,
the edges of the holly.
Already was the damage done,
stamped in foil?
Despite the kindness of some,
already have her face, her hands,
no meaning for her?
The rain not snow yet,
the windows already darkening,
the nun floating by in her bucket of a gown,
the edges around the child
turning in,
the floor polish smell,
the nearness of the elbow to the head,