Poetess At 24

(March, 2009)

Here,
in the darkness of an old front porch,
with the smell of wood and leaves
and the coming spring,
with the soft amber glow of a kitchen window behind me
shining safety out into the wilderness,
I think about you,
Momma,
as the wind rises,
sending a silver chill down my spine.
I pull this afghan around me tight
like the memory of your arms—
or a cradle—
where everything was simple.
Before home vanished
and the wilderness
took over.

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