SyriaI used to look in P&W Magazine’s Grants & Awards to see my name among
The winners. Now I look at In Memoriam, seeing my name among the dead.
On a misty morning, I drive back roads to the coast to get my sister.
Other cars go by, their windshield wipers waving a sad hello, good-bye.
An extra extra hour! My satellite clock didn’t change itself automatically
The way it’s supposed to. Time opened up, an unexpected flower.
It’s like the trees had gathered around and the vines grew over on purpose
To bring the old shack down. Clay the same sad color as the hay.
Dark trunks, bare branches. Red and golden leaves strewn around
Like coins. But beech trees still cling all winter to their copper fortunes.
I was near San Bernardino last December. I met three wonderful poets.
I didn’t even know there was such a thing as a semi-automatic pistol.
Bare branches, and the shadows of bare branches on the sides of country houses.
The light cold and clean, almost too eyed for comfort.
Sister, my orphan refugee. I’m the America being asked to take you in.
My fences built, my borders sealed. You might as well be from Syria.
We weren’t sure it was our mother. She looked 20 years younger. Last week
Two other old women were viewed and buried by the wrong families.
©2017 Laurel Blossom