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Mother Cloak






















...The garden sings in her invisible weather.

Of Russian sage. Of licorice scented stalks.
All is fodder. You are turning the wheel with tender arms.
Of dandelion and flock to dye the cloth with your indigo hands,

collar turned up at the neck in this wind, and your shirt tail
tucked in. You are timeless in your mother cloak, rivulets
of dirt under your nails and memories of beach and snow.

excerpted from the whole, a birthday poem for BR

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