Feeling lifted outside of my life. This is normal during the changing of the guard--that fragile moment when no one seems to be watching the door and whoever I am slips out so she can try on the summer skin: the gloves that hold the dirt-crusted shape of two hands praying around their quiet work.
In the poem-moment, she resembles nothing I've ever seen. From the dark wood of the desk, she is daring me to let go of anything I thought was mine, dropping it onto a page she'll burn in her heart because I'm still not that brave, and she's got a pile of ashes and scars and kisses and stars. Hey girl, take a load off.
And daughters know that all dishes must be done while dancing. And she adopts a single seed and feeds it all day long, mixing old coffee grounds and potting soil for it. "I love plants, Mommy, because you love plants and I love you. And I am a really good mommy for this plant." And mothers know that children aren't empty, waiting to be filled. They glow. Just watch and notice it when it shines. That's how most people work, not just kids.