never thought
of wishes
bad memories is all
when
words
carved of wood
petrified stone
perched
on oak branches
stop
the dangling swing
push
her legs, pumping
of sprouted wing
the sun made
all the difference
in a light rest
lying in a dark tomb
of books
she turned the pages
gently, torn
worn of ages ago
remembering
the sewn sleeve
of a dress
was it hot?
cold?
most mothers know
the weatherman’s secret
so predictable
to forecast the future
her plaster-of-paris
dreams
some how, gone wrong
seasons: a poetic journey 