The soft puffs of cotton float
and flit outside my work-window
where the walls of trees the
size of skyscraper loom
large like varicose veins of
wood, splintering to
the idea of a blue expanse
above, just out of sight
I know she is there, my mother
in her robin's egg church dress, but
I can't see the edge
of the hem, just the veins
of her legs, her tanned brown
trunk and the hair on her
knees
the puff of her perfume
floats like cottonwood
on the spring breeze
dancing at the tops
of the newly green trees
