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By Mike O’Connell

She lost a little everything, every day,
so that spent I love you’s were acknowledged,
even if not heard. most jokes and
trivial conversations went unrealized,
misunderstood, or simply passed over,
impediments to self-discovery, and no
help easing pain, or apprehension.
she talked about her childhood, as if it were
just a moment ago, referenced sepia toned
photographs as if they were short films,
turning her quiet albums into living things,
noisy with laughter.
She talked about clayton, walking in the
fields and hills around her tiny town, and
lying in tall grass, wild wheat, surrounded
by wildflowers and bumbling bees.
She said the fields were more efficient
than the brick factory, churning out
buttercups, bleeding hearts, dance floors of
dandelions, daisies, fierce blackberry bushes,
happily protected by vigilant alders and
firry trees.
She talked about the clouds, rolling
over her head teasing her about wishing
to be no more than she can be, lifting
her imagination into the new blue skies,
and far, far beyond.
All of her life, then, became her garden.
she nurtured the effervescent earth
beneath her, where mere seedlings
became sprouting representatives
of everything she knew. the kids were
in there, somewhere…and dad, and all
evils, eliminated like the weeds they were.
She battled slugs n snails, leaf eating
miniature monsters, any disease
threatening encroachment into her
canvas of soil, all kept at bay by
tenacity and calm. she had a deeper
sense of purpose, that would not
be denied.
She spoke to the birds, out there,
charlie, and little green frogs that
stopped by often, bringing with them
soft smiles, providing a gentle touch of
whimsy for her day.
She marked her territory with self made
stones, pretty statues from mythical places.
She hummed the old songs, out there,
some adorned with lost words,
never to be sung again.
She talked about her mother, her father,
her brothers and sisters, all of the people
who had an impact on her interesting life,
just as if they were but a phone call away,
or waiting for her tender touch,
on their budding leaves and blooms,
just there….waiting.

11/20/16

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