I see the morning moon
dream-full of spring songs—
of sap, worms, crows
(a murder gathers, cawing)
Now she hums fiercely through the clouds,
stirring my senses—
my mother’s alive, the call a mistake,
but my tire’s flat
on an earth that tilts, revolving.
This a quadrille for dVerse. De has asked us to use some form of the word “stir.” Yesterday, my sister got a call that my mom was “unresponsive.” It turns out the facility called the wrong person, and my mother was fine. However, I pulled out of my driveway and discovered my tire was flat. Fortunately, that didn’t happen when we were driving on the expressway.