softie

the bent pronged branches left hanging, a trace of me in the woods. he made a cage of chickenware and i filled it out with an image of my mother, bright rounds of red and fat cones. my floppy failed scones a lesson never to make something only to use something up. a end sacrificed by a mean me, heavy as stones. she comes tomorrow. fewer pleasant afternoons. she stinks of error long in past, rotten cloud rising from a dungheap. she will not ruin aims at invisible targets. it warms me that i can laugh, that we can laugh. keeps us up high out of reach. such a day with him, so much love in my life softens me. no surprises, i conjured him began when i was eight and knew it though he was off in the world already.