Winter's End

Winter had overstayed

its welcome.

White flakes pasted

across the lawn

and a tapestry

of technicolor.

I stood, rocking

on my heels

with my hands shoved

into my jeans

pockets in a barn.

Vapors escaped my lips

as my past danced

on my tongue.

A soft breeze moved

the cobweb of my regret.

All things considered,

the barn had order to it.

Hay there, tools there,

and a fridge there.

I moved Mom’s belongings.

Luck or fate had it

in us not to meet.

But my brother told me

she died last week.

I held up a framed

black-and-white picture.

I studied my mother

in her twenty-second year.

She had a sheepish grin,

leaning against a 1964

Mustang as if she hadn’t

a care in the world.

A light gust pulled her ponytail.

Mom held a chilled Corona

in one hand and a romance

novel in the other.

I squinted at her shoulder tattoo,

out of focus, is heart-shaped.

Mom’s eyes drew to the left,

leaving a sparkle in her eye.

Maybe we’re more alike than

I’d realized–more alike than I’d

like to believe.

I packed the boxes and took

the memories home

to put on the living room walls

and learn to love this woman.

By Andy Cooper

From: United States

Twitter: AC0040