Pushing Up Daisies

my mom’s not pushing up daisies having gone to her eternal rest in Spring her restful place is where her soul has gone back to earth with its raindrop-moss (springy, as if for a tiny bunny or hallucination-size “wabbit”) off track, the violet urn next to the frame that holds my mother’s face and my attention confused by the unscattered ashes contained. she’s there or elsewhere or both ways dizzy the thoughts and my nephew on and over a couple mountaintops where is he particles placed, displaced proper, improper does it matter it all matters and the occasional shock of a true blue viewing passing by the other room while relative remains seem sentiments of denial until a video snaps you out of it suddenly appears the ghost or a huge photograph reminds you why your there in that chair listening to the air breathing