Wind tearing through everything. Trees and the way they stand in it part scared part excited part hanging on part letting go part flailing part dancing.

Protected the plants I was bringing to my sister with my hands. They have not been outside yet they are becoming themselves but they are not themselves yet that is not it either they are every bit themselves I have been outside have not been myself have always always been myself?

The Mother’s Day breakfast tray croissants jam coffee oranges. My sister in front of her birthday cake in front of my sister and the sparklers a stick in the spokes of time’s wheels for a minute for a moment without moments. Around at the faces around this table love does not swim it is the water.

My daughter’s hands the way they looked playing Trouble and Chinese checkers and the tiny freckles over my son’s nose. All the seedlings I planted stretching up and up and boasting first true leaves. My mother making the cake with that enchanted quality with which she makes cakes and harmonies make themselves.

Are your peonies up yet I asked my uncle anxiously mine aren’t up yet we go out to look it is cold out and I crouch near the ground and they are up I touch their red defiance with my fingers my knees get wet. -sugar-salt-salt

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