‘’Mom, can we….

way mih

Mom, this isn’t…

way mih

I don’t want ….

way mih

Wow, look at this….

waay miih

He won’t give me…

way mih…

way mih!’’

the way of

misgivings

the way of

minerva

the way of

minnie mouse

the way of the

minutiae of

tending to.

the mih

of the minutes has gone

the kids are no longer waiting

(there were, after all,

four of them).

time to fold my long,

trailing mantle

of harried motherhood,

plump it into a cushion

full of nettles,

rose petals and

dud balloons

sit under the scrub oak tree

be silent and calm

witness

to the shock of

each distinct

moment

of

bloom