My mother

by trimple

As she tends to the tip of her duster, flicking songs from her feathers, downstairs. Like a maestro the orchestra trusts her; with precision they glide through the air. The bright particles left by my mother having lazed on her most precious things-- bob and dance in the light of each other like a window of butterfly wings. Though a ghost on this solemn occasion, for the dust notes, she'll never come home, but I sense that her spirit's persuasion often potters about on her own. Now, with tears on my cheeks, I remember her great laughter and funny old ways. Still, I'll draw a new smile this November in the dust of our dear yesterdays...

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Rhyming Poem contest entry

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2020

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A rhymed poem for Joan

My mother

by trimple

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