she was a little fragment of my mother. this is what i was and this is what she was. a dream of a day of a day gone missing in time. we touched together our little childhood wheels and we tossed them together, tangled and entangled and watched the hours drip past our eyelids. we felt the first rays of spring sliding across our slimey wet existences. we built forts of fortifications of all the words we heard labeled ‘mother and daughter’ and fit ourselves into the spaces in between our dreams and our day’s long lingering light. we tested the harmonies of our voices as we began to speak, and we sang songs through stories about silences we heard reflected in magazines we hadn’t bought. we bought a big bag of love and sprinkled it over the grass, waiting for the season to catch up with our reasons why it should come. we begged the starlight to drag its silver comb through the branches of the budding trees and we gave birth to a hope that spring would burst from our spleens, our spines, and the side of the buzzing great earth. we softened our brains and let beauty transform our neurons from nonsense to numbness- honeydew drunk on the dreams of clouds gone by, going by, about to go by. the purple satin sweetness of the space between the sky and the atmosphere and where the air hits the grass at just the right angle with just enough momentum to turn into blue wind. where the paint hits our purpose and turns the red and white hums of our humble, hum-drum existence into the orange and yellow flowers of a moment called spring. called a long selection of secret days swallowed in eternal rebirth. the trees tucked their trunked into their mammal-less pouched, ripped up their roots and made room for new leaves to lick up their bodies, turn their houses into temples and transform their aching hands into giving greeneries. we watched the ants march in from where they had been hiding and hoarding all of the fall’s fallings. they slithered and smothered themselves within the browns and burnished, tarnished ash of the earth until at last, they smelled of solid gold and sunlit afternoons that sang. the songs came in whispers and windpipes, first dull and sweet, then began to swell through as the light grew thick with anticipation of its coming trajectory come true. then all at last and all at once, the day swallowed itself backwards, sinking the sun back into the sleeves of the horizon and narrowing and releasing all the frozen colors that had been slinking around time and the touch of our lips again oxygen. the sky sank its teeth into its own rainbow realm of renewal and showered itself in sparks of quarks and quaking questions from its own voice of color connection. it was singing, i’m sure of it. it was birthing, i am quite positive of that. it was red and gold and flecked with cottonball pinks and purples. the clouds caught the air in waves of radios and micro-waves and scopes and circus tropes. tribes and traps and taps filled with almond milk. sublime saturn sweetness and all the stories of spring yet untold. yet told to the tellers and repeated to the resounding resilience of those of us still willing to be alive. still aching to go outside, and past the outside, to fly up.

 

so who will it be handed down to, to down to up. and finally, at the end of the day, we sipped our souls through the house, reattached our tongues to time and skated

and you keep an eye out, your eyes tucked into your sleeves, your toes stuck out of your ears

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