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About This Poem
My mom
I think she knows a thing
about living, of love, a generous line
She builds shelters from sand,
mixes sugar with water for humming
bird wine. In her home she sets
shells out for wayward crustaceans. She
builds lean-tos of palm fronds and plantains,
sea glass and chards; she photographs
chalice blooms. Her cupboard doors
are lined with fingerprint dreams -
maps of unchartered seas, blue
and green. Yet the wind finds
its way in, through louvered
screens. It hides by the bookshelves
counting pennies and seeds.
Each night, still she sets
out her intention, shakes out
the sheets, and sighs
into the wind.
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