Tag: mother

Over Chamomile

Thoughts

Your scar captivates me, the soft bridge on your flexing, fleshy, whipped cream arm, the scar from falling that interminable distance from the apple tree bough’s own break to the ground. I know that much. What captivated you there? Dragged you like a bonded prisoner into heights unknown. Made you taste danger like sharp, unripened blackberries.

Seed Catalog Days

Old Lessons, Thoughts

Watching Victory Garden on PBS with her, feeding egg shells and coffee grounds to the compost pile, digging and finding earthworms deep in black loam, working it back into recalcitrant clay, yanking the sharp spindly weeds, trying to step on the shovel to get down deep enough to get the root so it couldn’t come back.