Hazel - 19/04/24

Gifts of citrine to my father,

left in hopes he’ll be happy -

not rock he needed,

but tree.

Not yellow, orange, brown,

but bursting, verdant green.

Bright-eyed, fight or flight, wide-eyed

rabbit,

alert and wild

with tumbling, blonde cascades swept

around her babes,

and stragglers clinging

to carpets in my childhood home.

Once sparse, now cluttered

with a life she danced in on the fringe

of her skirt -

the chimes,

the scarves,

the velvet’s jewel-toned sheen.

Protector. Safekeeper.

Ardent spirit-seeker.

A real mother.

I so admire her.