What mother left behind
I am surprised now when the phone rings and it isn't her.
What we may have lacked in closeness, she now makes
up for in her silent volume, call after call. She looks for
what has gone away.
She cannot understand that it has left.
The bloom of spring, the fresh morning air quietly
waiting to pounce, a hot summer night with a cat stalking
her lap. Her memories have vacated their old house,
more quietly than dawn slips past dew ladden night.
My best words land and leave in a whisper unspent.
Still, that is what we do, and I do it still,
explain that is.
She'd rather I just make dinner.
Sometimes I just do.
I am trading ghosts into a mirror with no reflection.
She has left to a child's valley of snow blossoms.
One lost ghost remains sadly wondering.
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