She speaks
of Santa's cap at four
drawing with her mother's mother’s pencil.
She speaks
of pages on the floor
holding bits of stories that are wondering
Wondering if God will appear.
She painted flowers on her hands
On her arms and face and anywhere that called.
All her flowers from her brush chanced
Where her girl danced
Into a woman.
She speaks
of buildings in decay
and bicycles that ride abandoned hallways
She speaks
of flowers everyday
12 into 13 when touch was theory
it was merely a brushstroke away.
