Grit and Sunlight

What springs up: insistence

in this persistent

mother of mine (still breathing)

Even busy ashes from a rescued urn

float up reconstituted as morning dew

She unfolds her tendril arms from shadow

(shaking just five days ago as if in temporary surrender)

(that moment when I am less certain of her longevity)

this woman ever present (anyone’s mother) aging

when even the most spindly clover of her

fragile skin

captures the sunrise light like

anticipation’s shower blood underneath all

humming

bird or spores from her heart and in her mouth

inhale (frightened) breath exhale grit

inhale (certain) breath exhale grit

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