mom’s poem (age 17)

A child still wanders through the lands
that lived in library books and puppet shows
I still run bare foot through puddles
and stick my fingers in hot pools of melted wax,
to remember the feeling
of putting small “smell-good-hearts” in your cupped hands
The smell of thrift stores, your infectious laugh

Though lullabies and fireflies linger in my dreams,
the last tufts of Babies-Breath are wilting at my feet

A disarray of lessons, and particular moments and secrets,
turning the soil soft and sweet

A bed made for a new age

17 years of your doting endearment
have made gardens of my childhood
and a perennial morale grow, from the hearts of troubled seeds

The band on your finger, that let me know which hand was yours in a crowed place
or sea of uncertainty
Still I look for that beacon to guide me in the right direction when I am lost
Showing me always to turn towards the sun

No one could be a better mother to me,
I hope to become the Rose, you meant for me to be

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