I can never say what it is inside or
outside of me that whispers,
“Life is okay,” or “See the flowers
blooming” although it feels like
February clings, the trees remain
skeletal beings, and the bluish gray
of the sky spreads like the cape
I imagine the Captain of Death wears.
“Mommy, that’s not what you say,”
Corrie says somewhere in the field,
sky, or in my mind. Almost ten months
since blue skies and the spring I always
love, but it clings to me like ice in
February when they say the storms
will not come, but storms come.
Ice freezes over the snow. How I’ve
felt that in the summertime when you
say, “Goodbye.” I hear you say, “Mommy,
it’s not meant to be that way.”
Remember when I interview you in
braids and a princesses’ bathing suit?
I ask you about your time at Myrtle
Beach, and you say, “So awesome.”
I guess I can cast the ice away
and think of the time I did have with
you as “So awesome,” too.
Corrie's Season 