The moment when Mother sat, 
her legs slightly open, the skirt and apron 
dipping between both. Her hands, swollen 
from washing my dresses by hand, resting 
on her thighs. Her breathing slowing. 

The seconds when the skylark rose, rose, rose, 
before trilling out its mating song. 
The gentle breeze you could only see because 
the wheat made the wave in its breath. 

The anonymous twinkles between Orion 
and Cassiopeia as my eyes swept 
the winter sky searching for the constellations 
my father named when he took my hand. 

The flight of the dandelion seeds 
after I puffed up my cheeks and blew, 
and the dragonflies doing their acrobatics 
between sharp light bursts reflected 
by the short waves of the brook. 

The fish exchanging their mute talk, 
schooling in perfect synchronicity. 

The winged delinquents under the eaves 
pausing their chatter before the first thunder 
when the pregnant cloud breaks its water. 

The time between the breaths 
my baby took when I listened 
to his sleeping. 

Rose Mary Boehm

is a German-born British national living and writing in Lima, Peru. Her poetry has been published widely in mostly U.S. poetry reviews (online and print). She was twice nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her fifth poetry collection, Do Oceans Have Underwater Borders, has just been snapped up by Kelsay Books for publication in May/June 2022.

Author’s website: https://www.rose-mary-boehm-poet.com/