Tale: a list, a reckoning.
She measures my visits by the tales I bring
gift-wrapped, crackling in a cellophane
of nods and nuance, sad stories, open
-hearted as orchids, a basket of jokes,
fruity as strawberries. Carefully she
saves twine from my gossip, strengthens
her own blooms with it, to make a display
for others who may wander by the meadow
of her bedside. With a daughter’s care
I thread the silver thinnings of her hair
with daisy chains of memories, the white
and gold of childhood and my chattering,
light as thistledown, blows out the hours.
By teatime, we are heavy with the harvest.
