26

Every year my mother and father
would plant bulbs
in the rotting air of fall
on edge with the pachysandra.

Today the yellow flowers
reveal a topographical map of
our settlement as the
pachysandra spreads.

It is coming towards the house.
My father wants to put
an end to planting.
The deer do not eat daffodils.

My mother plants them in the chilled ground, regardless,
marking our time like lines on a wall.
-Hannah



Day upon day
adds up to years
which then add up
to make a life

Some days are filled
with more than we
need, sometimes good
other times bad

This past Sunday
adjustments were
made, plans altered
only to wait

another day
still no answer
-KM