Poets' Practice Pad

Earrings

Spring blooms slip
off the branches,
leaves bend with dew,
and my eyes fill to the brim
as you stomp on the pair of earrings
my gift to you.

I shall never cry again;
my tears promise to never spill
but they'll catch the light
of heavens
to reflect it on the warp
and weft of the carpet
you scream on.

Your mad rage
will steam my years,
leaving a tiny twinge
in its wake,
when its snapshot memory
will pop up,
over and over.

Then, with a stifled laugh,
as if I'm eleven once more,
I'll continue finding
excuses for you,
to grant you a heart
in our collaboration,
Mother!

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