what you don’t see here:
picking rhubarb in the rain
for salvation pie
a rare, masked smile
his first roller coaster ride
our life’s hills, splashes
three-thirty a.m.
my oldest’s footsteps. good steps.
intentional steps.
this is not a moon.
this is a lunar eclipse.
(Super-Flower-Blood)
and she’ll be gone soon.
(no early-morning steps).
and i. am. eclipsed.
shadows of loss win
the afternoon shines bright.
(we still have our moon)
the best time of year
is strawberry-rhubarb pie
(yes, it's a season)
baked by my daughter
the sweet and sour combo
shines as bright as spring
a midnight rainstorm
brought early this raging creek
and stole seed-planting
yet, cycle views burst
with blossoms of spring color
saving the lost day
rock border, hostas,
and a new lupine. work day
saturday success.
my perfect symbol:
trying so hard for peaches
even while dying
the plants are rising
as the school year closes down
(garden life cycle)
graduation day
bleeds into normal doldrums
(life's quick, painful truths)
there's no heartbreak here
just my girl, eighteen years old,
ready to face them
sneakers underneath
(pandemic proms are outdoors,
under tents, in grass)
she's taller, braver.
in her silver floor-length gown,
she masters the night
and aren't we a crowd?
this master-mix of humans,
standing on these rocks?
unsinkable us
right below the Molly Brown
(ready to swim. Win.)
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