Untitled No. 12

The scab has torn and the water has come to a boil,

My mother is a water lily, and I,

Am a mud flower,

The sudden screaming of buttercups, tiger lilies, bluebells and other wildflowers unknown, crescendo around me,

I am enveloped in the mornings of recursion,

Warm chai against monsoon, wild honey on white bread,

The humming dryers of laundry for the kitchen,

I’ve scraped my knee, in only two continents,

Beside either temple, or the shiny silo that’s new, beside the parkway.

Shiny new silos for the new dairy plant, rising erect, bringing Ohio to Ontario,

the American Midwest has expanded.

Today is so loud.

I haven’t seen the rain in weeks, I’ve felt that I could go blind tonight and barely notice.

I pretend I am in a Z28.

I pretend I am going fast.

I pretend I am back in my memories, repeating what I like,

And editing that which makes me blush.

My mother is a lily pad, she holds strong stem against current, against attack from eager fish, and fishermen alike,

And I am a mud flower,

I emerge in spring out of dust and snow, I twist and I contort for two weeks,

and then I am shrinking.

Summer seems to only be enjoyable from a passengers side window, or through a memory.

Oh how I lamented those hot market days, or the hours spent digging, the short breakfasts, the pressed spices.

But now they have their glow and their sheen,

Exit 17A,

Four more left.