the emerald plastic twisted and fell away
in sheaves, coils of brotherhood detatched.
i sang with their falling and laughed with their parting,
because i stayed whole as they went.
the brown patch they left on my wrist
was disconcerting, but soon it faded and speckled,
seemed like sunlight through blinds shot through
with pellets or bird seed, doves too careless with breakfast.
from the pot on the fire, a steam rose up like a lily,
white and dancing with the first spring breeze
(a moment no mother could capture, busy with child,
who buzzed as loudly) as it blew past spectre leaves.
because, if she was there, who needed me?
No comments:
Post a Comment