she hated the cold


the day they cremated Mom, I was left

in the house where she lived with my stepfather

watching minutes contort into hours, changing

the way the sun fell on November snow, remembering

her acres of flowers in the field criss-crossed

by deer, doe-eyed calm despite the alert fear

essential to staying alive under a blue-eyed sky—

the earth still clinging to my mother’s boots

standing neatly, faithful hard by the door,

neat as manicured nails searching for pieces—

her unfinished work—a 1,000 piece puzzle

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