Non-glitzy-but-comfortable glory that is my momma minivan
piloted by my command flies north—
The search is on
for golden apples to replace a seemingly no good
rotten pile or maybe
just add to an insufficient one.
What if she doesn’t like fruit anymore?
Full of junk?
I dab my eyes and pray and
dab my eyes and pray
Surely I’ll find divinely mysterious
apples perfectly sized
to fit into her life-space
waking her from wandering reverie
An angel babe sitting pretty on my right shoulder assures
“Your compass works fine.
Don’t give it to anyone to hold for you.
A gleam from within yanks
hold of my heartstrings—
pictures of silver
apples of gold
words fitly spoken
They’ve been with me all along
tucked between worry
They are me
Arrival made before departure.