She'd had little patience with darkness, and her heart held only a measure of shadow. I touched the warm dust of those colors, her tools, and left there with light on the tips of my fingers.
Mother (fragment) ...You asked me if I would be sad when it happened and I am sad. But the iris I moved from your house now hold in the dusty dry fists of their roots green knives and forks as if waiting for dinner, as if spring were a feast. I thank...