I let the water run—

perhaps too long.

soapy residue:  all gone.

some mornings I feel so antigua

it translates to ‘old’ or ‘ancient’

by naming myself thus, however,

I hope to sprinkle

a bit of mystique, as in

will this day be the day?

colored swatches on tag paper

meandering ephemera

not-so-lost-child still loves to play

forsythia, newly planted

leaf bursts, virgin yellow blooms

my mother’s final journey

crowded & overgrown,

they’ve overstayed their welcome—

fistful of chives

ephemera collected over the years

memories suffused into bits & bobs

who might cherish it as much as I?

darkened sky to the east

drops of rain on sunroom windows

a hint of wind to go with it

the British call it sorted

handled, organized, under control

I just like the way it sounds

burning brush

in a wrought iron pit

its hinged mesh cover

corrals unwieldy ash

as towering flames

reach for unseen stars

reams of silver, slices of magic

sunshine’s glowing warmth

ah, the benevolence of spring