Poem

I started writing a poem today.

I dreamt last night the grass was green,
And you held my hand to comfort me.

But that's as far as I got before this poem about my mother made my wound that is the absence of her reopen and bleed as though it were just incurred. The feel of her hand, her soft skin, the shape of her fingernails, the light pressure of her fingers, and her love were all very close to me today. It was as if she was visiting me.

*ten kleenexes later*

Don't forget to set your clocks ahead tonight. Did you notice even without the daylight savings time how light it is staying, later and later? Where I am there is still light blue sky at the horizon at 7:15pm. I wouldn't mind hearing how late/early the sun goes down in your neck of the woods, if you'd take the time to comment :o)