Apology to My Daughter

When I pulled you out of God’s garden
and brought you home, I did it knowing
that the ground was dry and that it hadn’t
rained in years. The pots were all broken
and the only soil left could fit in my hands.

I know that the ground was damp and dark
in the ether before I took you up
and into the world, but that perfect Earth
could only kill you now, and when I wish
you a better life, you become a vapor
in my arms. So here is all the water I have.