Cold fog slinks into my kitchen at five,
I clutch hot celadon mug with crepe hands,
Though java jolts me, still dull, not alive.
Dark ancient fears haunt me out of dreamlands.
Ghost of hard-hearted lost daughter taunts me.
Sleep starved, coddled in crocheted cashmere shawl,
Damp mist clings, wispy curls frizz, spring free
Goddess emerges, crowned by silvery caul.
Girls become mothers with kisses of love,
Their wisdom hard gained with feathers of dove
Published in Open Heart Forgery https://ohforgery.com/2018/08/27/september-2018/#mothers
Romancing the Crone with Words 