Bloodless On Mother's Day

There is a glare of stray sunlight daring to reverberate through spiderwebbed glass I haven't found energy to fix in the span of four years. It is too much of a mirror, too tangible a thought, to make new. It's lithe fingers, thin and bony, and mockingly bright, steal over embossed cardstock that arrives, like clockwork, in deepest sympathy. And a thornless bouquet of pastels laden with Babies Breath only draws on blood long lost; nobody seems to comprehend such an allegory, or lack there of, so it can't be carried over the steps. "Bloodless On Mother's Day" Jenna-Nichole Conrad Wordsmith