This air is flooded with her. I am a boy again, and my mother <br />and I lie on wet grass, laughing. She startles, turns to <br />marigolds at my side, saying beautiful, and I can see the red <br />there is in them. <br /> <br />When she would fall into her thoughts, we'd look for what <br />distracted her from us. <br /> <br />My mother's gone again as suddenly as ever and, seven months <br />after the funeral, I go dancing. I am becoming grateful. <br />Breathing, thinking, marigolds.<br /><br />Forrest Hamer<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/grace-67/
