The snow is melting now,
like my mother who sits
in her chair, week after week,
sewing the months together.
Her laughter ripples
beneath the skin. A mouth,
that once spoke words, opens
like an unused barn door.
Her words flicker out, pigeon
like in their flight. I see the weight
of the snow, the fallen sky
trapping her in, hiding the person
I know.
Gareth Culshaw is from Wales. He has his first collection out in April by FutureCycle Press.
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