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Mother’s history, no mater how hysterical…entrenches me.

I despair in the here-say.

The delight of what could be.

How long the sagging eyelid of clouds over a no name mountain?

How long the gentle placement of boulder over stone…

Gritty granite towel drying ancient flora…and, elderly fauna.

What has brought you and I here?

Why do you insist on repair?

Mother’s history makes a mockery of my vanity…

of the human in me.

And, yet her charm continues to conceive.