The sun softened her
into an over-ripe peach.
The golden skies glazed
the planes of her face
with berryjuice freckles.
Mom became more of a Mother
each summer as it progressed.
Flourished as an unplanned seed
in a wild garden.
Her three children
gathered around her there,
occasionally grabbing onto here
I, was the star thistle with great thorn curls,
purple-eyed piercing stare, and insinuations.
The second weed, my middle brother, a fluff haired dandy-lion,
stayed only long enough to send runners
in the misleading random directions.
The third, my youngest brother,
trying to grow tallest for attention,
and being a tickle-weed who
never failed to please,
did his best to coax a wry smile from
underneath the chin of his well-pleased Mother.
Melissa A Howells Meloo from her much older
Tilt-a-World. thinking of the past
Copyright August 6, 2013 All Rights Reserved By Author
I love my family, here and no longer here.
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