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.
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/