Mother, how will you drink out of the cold stream now that you’ve made a gift of your front teeth to the dentist in town? You hold out the little finger of your left hand in a dream, and it is wired with fine, thin silver. I would not know except that you told me, whispering in the way you used to spin stories out of the air, each one linked by And then. I wish you could see how it is snowing again outside my window, and I am wearing socks that you did not make with your hands. The drifts are soft as carded wool, or nubby like new growth on the backs of calves. Where they fall on the neighbor’s unpruned bushes, I want to string my prayer flags: indigo for memory, ivory for the touch of your hand, red for the blaze in our hearts, turquoise for the years lost to count; and last: burn of saffron, gold of sacrifice.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.