When Mother was sick she sent Morgan and Jason and me Outside to roll down hills, Catching hay-colored grass and purple flowers in our hair, So that at five years cancer seemed Something made of sky and hot yellow splinters of sun. I picked sweet peas for Mother, Purple-pink flowers in a glass by her bed. But she didn't see--eyes closed, she sang, Her voice dropping like petals in the room. It was a year before I knew she was dead, (Knowing was a dark sour taste on the roof of my heart) I only thought she was gone And perhaps walking suddenly into her room one morning I would catch her there, smelling of sweet peas, singing. I think that if I could I would reach both arms around the waist of the world And squeeze it flat as a sky To make the dead sprout up.
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Warren Wedin email@example.com