Tongues of flame

still burned

upon her weathered skull

like Octobers

first gentle snow

on demoded

village backroads,

rockface archaic,

after eons

autumn codas.

 

Her path

transmuted

by star cells,

her passion

s t r e t c h e d 

me apart.

 

At phone's song,

I stagger

beneath silv’ring snow

to pick up;

aching

for ma's voice.