Mother's World

Touch me with winter's wet stroke
for my brow is hot with fever.
Gift my thirst a piece of lemon
for its pain.

Let our hands rake the wheat
as we play through the fields
of buzzing pollen
and summer's choke.

Let this memory's heat
prepare your soul's meals.
Let my tears
taste of your apple peels.

I see you, in the frame of the window,
fixed, as in the photograph, young, and dead,
like the future feels.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.