My mother grew sweet alyssum in the bed by the porch.
That is my childhood. There is more, of course.
Her birthday on the Fourth. And the force that transformed us.
Mind gone, her body a torch. Mine gone, to alyssum.
And a smile that could be a rainbow, or door.
A limb to sing from? A wind chime? A breeze? An arch?
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Categories: New Poems & Pieces