We exhaled, and dandelions danced.
Her peat filled our lungs, milk and familiar cotton sleep.
We grew restless and recoiled to unfamiliar swamps.
She isn’t home, but an estranged sister we’re told to remember fondly.
Home stays further north, but still where it’s warmer mostly.
She’d whistle the valley’s clover, milkweed and silt, glow her smile, perform an hour, just for us. We were all very close for such a long time.
We miss so much. And so much more
we wish these breaths there
into a jar for now
And stow them into the trunk,
By mom’s window
By the park.
We keep the salt shaker full.
We spill it
so much more.