The hydrangeas hang their faded bluish heads— my dozing mother, chin on her chest. The shade is sweet—I sit. It’s too hot to claim
lumbers out of the unwavering surf; claws, flipper by flipper, through wavesmack and tidepack; drags her girth up the struggle of shore; that vast
My grandmothers returned from the village: some spilled sugar over tea bags; sunshine… magnolias painted with citrus grocery lists—always stained and lullabies on guitared