Morning again: He yawns and dreams break up.
The pictures crumble but unease hovers
Like a blue fly. He recalls his mother
In a different country. A blue lake cut
From tumbling rock. Words falling like rain
All around her, stippling the surface and
Filling her boat to the gunwales. Her hands
Folded, her smile showing mischief or pain.
He couldn’t tell. He sits up, rubs his eyes.
Peels back the curtain, unveiling gray clouds,
Dull green of a neighbor’s lawn. Already
It slips away. Seeing his unsteady
Hand, he asks for forgetfulness out loud.
Buried in time, he lets his heart capsize.
If you have any comments on this poem, Mark J. Mitchell
would be pleased to hear them.