“Tonight I can smell the season the way it’s usually only possible to at the very first moments of its return, before you’re used to it, when you’ve forgotten its smell, then there it is back in the air and the flow of things shifting and resettling again.”
―Ali Smith,The Whole Story and Other Stories
A simple yellow postcard addressed to you, dear mother
was all it took to take me back to my deepest heartbreak
and as I looked at that innocent reminder,
my tears began to spill, and my stoic will did flounder
Mother, wrenching grief is never far away,
for I see you in each sun drenched summer day.
Your bluest eyes dance with the buoyant clouds,
the lilt of your voice carries on the nascent breeze
the fragrant pastel pink roses are a sweet reprieve
for within them, your gentle smiling face I see
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