A vision of my Mother for a sunny day

A small poem about memory

Memory is precious,

if in the cosmos futile,

(and much like a kite the second the wind stops:

        a slow fall like sand until it flits gracefully to

        nothing but whispers and glitters and shadows.

       It is a stitchwork that warms those who

       wove it with the vague colors and breaths of a life once lived.

      And who is to say that as a kite or a dream or a blanket it wasn’t real?

      That it wasn’t a galaxy?

      Whose ebbs and flows are not more than visions of your mother

      on a sunny day?

and is the sum of your moments,

those worthwhile

and those not.

 

Author's Note

If a more concise format would help, let me know!