Mothers and Daughters: Communicating Vessels

One year when the awakened plane trees
find themselves struck yellow in the night,
there will be nothing left of me but
a memory in your hands as they pull
wet laundry from the spun drum or
open the window’s case –
inviting October’s last, warm breath
to communicate the dust
between one room
and another.

by Bonnie McClellan

 

This was first posted in May of 2013.

By bonniemcclellan

Mother, poet, american ex-pat from Texas living in Northern Italy.

1 comment

  1. Dear Bonnie I love your poem. I have reread it several times. It is one of your best.e Affectionately Liliane Sent from the desk of Liliane G. Richman

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