The heron
stands
motionless,
balanced
between one
meal and the next.
The swallow
turns
and banks,
nipping insects.
The
dragonfly wings away.
I rock feebly.
They bib me
for dinner,
but when
did we eat breakfast?
My Mother
danced
above hot
pots steaming,
my plate
and memory full.
Now, I hold
neither
hunger nor
remembrance.
Strength
fails without balance.
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