- Each time my mother looked out over the black driveway
She called, “Stop running!” and return to the ponk-ponk of her stitching.
We’d stop and wait for her to look back down at her baby-blue blouse
And dart after each other again.
Your mother would scribble her red pen across a writing
Rejecting a line of imagery, saying
“Patty, let them run.”
Cerulean hoops encircled our hips
Swinging rhythmically about overalls and lemon-yellow tee-shirts.
Easy smiles reached our lips
Laughter echoed in the thick lilac air.
What happened to those green summer days?
They evaporated with our childhood.
<3 Rufu
