To Mom

 I. Six Months
Flaxen light filters through the thin curtains,
Casting ornate patterns on her cheek.
Like intricate paper snowflakes,
Dancing in frigid wind.
With rosy hands and balmy lips,
Blushing petunia petals,
She rocks my cradle with saccharine affection.

II. Four Years
I fall into backyard creeks,
And bring tadpoles into the tub,
Hidden in the folds of my baby fat hands.
She scrubs the mud from my skin,
And blows iridescent bubbles across the bathwater surface,
Like miniature sailboats,
drifting towards a porcelain horizon.

III. Eight Years
Wax races away from amber flames,
Dripping onto pristine frosting,
Creating daffodil craters in vanilla cake.
She watches in dim corners of rooms,
With a heaviness in her eyes,
Weeping for time that can’t be given back.

IV. Thirteen Years
I paint with gloss and powder,
A saturated version of myself,
A colorful tarpaulin pulled over innocence.
She watches with silent lucidity,
Out of hand and out of season.
Fallen fairy wings and pixie dust
Bottled in jars and flasks.

V. Seventeen Years
Alabaster legs hang off the edge,
Brushing my brass bedframe in teenage infatuation.
When our four legs become two,
She waits with subtle alchemy,
Gracing me with a summer storm.
Like a warm highway rain,
Showering me in love.
 Ingrid