My mother’s eyes were alive in winter,
appreciative of the cold; her life unfolded
like new-fallen snow, good for packing,
molded to the hands of children who hated
even the slightest tincture of goldenrod beams
on their faces in January.
She couldn’t be there to guide me along the
lines, so I fell between them, landing on all
the pavement cracks as I fell. Summer tricked
both of us with its secrets, masking her eyes.
Her voice is lukewarm now, but I’m not sure
if I can wash my hands clean just yet. I have
nothing to dirty the water with, but she loves
ripples and distortion and flirts with deceit.
Now that I am older, I wish for winter again,
and children’s rhymes that hold no truths.