On Mothering A Son In February

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The belling pink flowers
in the ceramic purple vase
are still fresh
like your words

You grinned metal
as you rushed up the stairs
Saturday
bouquet in hand

When we hugged
my head reached
only your shoulder
The wonder of oatmeal

and years
a needlepoint of patience
with requisite tatters
eggs must be broken

Each day is played out
the same
you love me
you love me not

February 2016
Julie Ayers

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