During the last few years of her life, my mother did not know the time, the day, the month, the season, the year, or the name of the town where she lived. She just lived. She liked music. She liked flowers. She liked apple juice. She did not like pain. Now, I know what time it is. But I do not know what time is. I like rain.
At the Flower Show
A child’s hand shakes rainwater
from a bright yellow dahlia,
scatters jewels on the ground.
I look up . . . the child is grown.
Songs and Letters, September 1, 2008
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