The Daughters of Spring

Don’t Mess with Mama Bird by

You are now three and my struggle is rushing ,
remembering to hold on to your tiny words,
pulsing between my daydreams of pressing thoughts
and the image of your silly faces
in the rearview mirror.

You make me laugh,
sing along sweetly to the radio, tell me a story
about how Winnie the Pooh dies and then goes to jail.
I am supposed to drive, steer, pay attention to the road
stay between the yellow lines,
and make enough money to fill this damn tank–
not to mention all those dishes in the sink at home.

I try to fit it all into this drive to school, so afraid to lose or fail,
and when we arrive, when you flit from the car
and float, fairy-like, to the curb
you are not looking forward,
only into this moment, the blossomed petals on the concrete.

Your eyes sparkle up towards mine and quick as a wink you
wave your hand into the pile of  ivory petals, fling them into the air
so they drift in the breeze and swirl back to the ground.

My heart rips open like a seed
who knows spring is here, right now,
and we are her daughters.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

You may use these HTML tags and attributes: <a href="" title=""> <abbr title=""> <acronym title=""> <b> <blockquote cite=""> <cite> <code> <del datetime=""> <em> <i> <q cite=""> <strike> <strong>