I wrote this five years ago, just before my mother died.
My mother keeps falling down;
I can’t find my littlest flashlight.
The gray cat is suddenly dead;
I have poison parsnip burns.
My mother doesn’t always know where she is;
the moon in its first quarter is tangled in the oak.
We’re a month from the Equinox and
the low battery light on my mouse blinks red.
My mother doesn’t want to see the doctor.
When I was making supper, I burned the rice.
Weeds have spread through the garden bed;
do I still believe in god?
My mother didn’t recognize me this morning;
I took another photo of the setting sun.
Mice are picking at the ripening tomatoes and
Jupiter burns through the sky before dawn.