This morning I notice
daffodil buds:
tightly furled, waiting
to explode across the lawn.
daffodil buds:
tightly furled, waiting
to explode across the lawn.
For the first time
in a long time
I allow myself to think
about my mother’s hands,
how they curve inwards,
as if they permanently cup
regret. My hands have always
been splayed, searching for
in a long time
I allow myself to think
about my mother’s hands,
how they curve inwards,
as if they permanently cup
regret. My hands have always
been splayed, searching for
something —
And, somewhere, those curving hands
are placing daffodils carefully
in a cut-glass vase, filling
it with water and setting
it on a windowsill
where light still
reaches.
are placing daffodils carefully
in a cut-glass vase, filling
it with water and setting
it on a windowsill
where light still
reaches.
