when my hands were
hot coals,
that burned and scorched
any living thing
she held them,
with little regard
for what blisters
grew on her own.

when my orchid
was dying,
going brown at its petals
ready to be
thrown into the compost
she stayed
and watered it,
so gently spraying
each lost little flower
until it bloomed

when I swelled
with joy
and life,
she stood and shared
so simply
never questioning
never asking,
never doubting.

her love
in each
golden curl
in her
freckled silk-skin
her smile,
dresses of orange and blue
so stark and beautiful
against the grey of the world.

they named her
it would seem.


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