When you say
you are nearly home,
I look out at snow
on the blossoms,
strong sun ahead
of the cold. You
have forged me well,
assigned my worries,
taught me to care
for plans as they
dissolve like paper.

I carry your nerves,
those lengthy catalogues,
like sparks in my pocket,
flashes I scatter
to scar the ground.

MOTHER by Sandra Marchetti

Photo used under CC.