electric fingers, worn by silver
move me forward, will I hear a whisper
spent as light in near dawn, spirals
she limps, then settles
sits in blonde wood acclimated to cold
peeks through the porthole, spider glass
pipes of light I would collect and –
forget, unbidden in deep pockets
padded, stuffed with dolls, grass, a look
from the hall, red paint that gleams
and after all my fingers pause – a window?
on and on that whisper howls
Deb, This is so cool! You’re a great writer, you got a chuckle and a tear out of me. We actually have alot in common. Besides the insecurities about our hair, I had the same exact experience with my Mom. I mean…what were they thinking? I would never say that to my child, yet alone think it…shhhhh. I adore my husband BUT my kids really mean so much to me. I guess because he can take care of himself, right? My kids? No way, they really need me. I think that sounds pathetic, at least when they are grown and gone it will. I’ll check in another time. I’ll be in touch for wine :) XO, thanks for sharing, Tracy