Some daughters drift away. Like fog, there then
lifting then gone. Others need a sharper break.
Something swift and cold and painful.
Every girl has her way of learning to leave.
Fits and starts. Till they can walk
away and back again,
grow confident that after every turn
towards home or away
they can turn around again. This takes so much practice.
We spent last weekend, mother and daughter,
doing nothing much. In sweaters and soft socks.
Ice cream for dinner. Cafe breakfasts with friends.
Popcorn and old TV shows. Mostly, music playing.
All night we heard crashes outside the windows.
Icicles, built over long winter weeks,
melted and fell from the roof.
January thaw. In the morning, for one day,
we could see the grass again,
so green and welcome I wanted to cheer, to bend down
and kiss all growing things in thanks,
for the reminder that this frozen world will pass, in time.
Puff Of Smoke Poems 