by Mary Ann Meade

My mother calling out from the dead,
that I should stop paddling against the flow,

find a good sun hat for my head,
though with the snow falling

through the cracks in the shed,
I push on, find the cook fire burning.


Home, but as always, I did it solo,
across the neap waters of a night dream.

Carefully, I tie-down the canoe,
secure it to the rack of paper, pen,

my mother silent among the dead,
the door to her shed left open.

Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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