In my mother’s head
the poetry writes itself
whether it be
the warm sunlit lake water
or a cooling offshore wind
against her poised figure
whether it be
the sharp rose bramble
or the soft fountain grass
her fingers graze
as she plucks
a bouquet
to tie amongst the
twists of her daughters braids
whether it be
the cutting edge of a pontoon
against the writhing waves
or the rise and fall of
the goldfinches’ call
whether it be the
sweet of the boiling tree sap
or the acrid aroma of
burning wood
The poetry writes itself
In my mothers head
all she sees
turns to dancing words