Uncooked

 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