Beyond the sacred willow branches

Woven intricately across my mother’s

swollen chest

Liquid gold, honey dripping from sweetgrass

Wisconsin-grown, chipping white barn doors

over lands of blue bays

Culminating indigo violets and yellow dandelions,

barely past four

Bring them to my mother, 

through swinging porch doors

Holes for mosquitoes to escape 

on the buggy nights

Dusted farmhouse sink,

running past green valleys to neon skies

Tuck my hair behind my little ear,

twinkling fairies behind my brown eyes

Take our talc canoe across the river,

grasp the sides with firm fingers

My mother, crinkles in the corner of her eyes

Whispering stories of swaying carp and

lingering catfish

Eventually in noon we will reach field,

Soft brush under my broken sandals

A paint brush splash soaks through 

my denim blue jeans,

In my hand I select

purples, blues, oranges

My mother bends and whispers to me,

lavender, woodland violet, tiger lily

Somewhere in those fields

on that sonder Sunday afternoon,

As I rested my head on powdered underbrush

Perhaps I did not realize this would be the last time

To cherish that simple moment,

in that town of stars

Ripping sweetwater to see past the eye,

with bruised knuckles and scraped knees

Wisconsin-grown little girl, oil slick hair

red boots and boat fringed knots.