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.
