for my mother



there is the sun embracing the day and dead tree branches like little fingers clawing out of their mortal coil. i have found such things beautiful always, and to see them is to see the cracks in the little conversations i have had. with such subtle splendor of the earth, how can i even sin in sadness, or breathe unwanted air? like the soothing curves of memory’s outline i forget what it is like to be inside without the lakewind or seawind on my face, the breath of god as he laughs. the birds, now far south for our unusually warm winter, fill their bird brains with notions to return. i’ll welcome them in full in a month or too when i am home again in concrete mazes where i belong. 




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