With dread, I saw A thistle bush, almost my height And almost fully wilted, Letting wisps of seed Drift away on a late summer breeze. An ill omen in reverse, a memory Of bitter thorns and bitter words Shared from mother to daughter, And daughter again. My mother professed, She ought not have had children.…
Long, spindly branches flickering in a whirl, Illuminated by the brush of the sun, The glory, as mesmerizing as any dance, Yet I am moving forward as the trees Remain stationed in their stillness. Mom spoke of her parents again And their stories trail behind me, And the stories of those before them And the…