​

My mom’s riding sunlight

now, slipping between

layers of fog, sprouting with

new grass in the spring.

She’s a garter snake’s slither

in my garden, the catch

at the end of crow’s call.

She’s the sky’s reach on a

bright day and the cloud’s

depths on a dim one.

She’s a gong of atoms at the

center of a black hole, and

she’s the silence that

hasn’t yet fallen.

​