Monday, August 10, 2015


I thought she was my mother
Even looking a little like my aunt
But they weren't she wasn't.

She takes her time, does not get
To the bottom of the map

her words are gardens with lots of paths
benches, pots, gazebos

Corners filled with light
Then cool mystery.  Leaving
meeting.  The depot.  Obsessed
With June.  Everything about her.

What could they find out

About nature, tenacity
retreating to the cafe
Holding up their hunger
To the incoming light.

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