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On the 11th anniversary of my mother's death, this one is dedicated to her

It’s the tiny things you remember
when someone meets death
and leaves,

how she was a wildflower,
a poppy at the roadside and
distant in certain seasons.

My nomadic mother,
dancing from desert to desert.
Sometimes she had children.
Sometimes that place stood empty.

I cling to her reflection
like mine, sharp and fractured,
sometimes beautiful in its brokenness.

Until I meet death too,
She will greet me
from the bunches of poppies
swaying in the desert.

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