It is on a strand of the Ohio
that these hydrangeas grow more beautifully
blue than I have ever seen.

Explosive flower heads full, sway
as the wind sways everything.  Blue,
spectacular ~ watery, soft, cyan.

We sit in white rocking chairs
at door’s threshold as time passes
like the barges on the river.

New Dawn roses climb
and drape the fence,
wrought iron against
a placid sky.

We share family stories and laugh,
laugh and catch ourselves.

Talking of our past, past talking.

Inside my mother lies motionless, silent,
her hands, her forehead, her lips, still.
She receives relief from pain,
                      drop by drop by drop.