thistledown

reading to mother

on her deathbed

the books I loved at five—

            the rabbit burrow

            safe around us

the shell

of a box turtle,

split open and empty. . .

where did it go,

my fear of death?

footsteps

falling like syllables

in the rhythm

of an ancient rune

I outrun the dark

windsong

under the eaves

of a house

where once I lived. . .

this old bone flute, my body

wind in the grass

on Big Yellow Mountain. . .

over the granite

bones of my mother

I lay my body down

             ~red lights 10:1, Jan. 2014