by Andrea Potos
At the Marigold Kitchen Cafe
for my daughter
Its name made good on the promise
of brightness and gold, its burnt orange
and deep ochre walls. We’d find the spot
under the slanted ceiling — our corner
of cushions and embroidered pillows — she
with her sketchbook and magic markers,
her hot cocoa and whipped cream, me
with my wide-ruled notebook and cappuccino — she
drawing stories with her pictures, me, learning
by watching, how to make pictures with my words.
Where I Might Find Her
Overnight it seems, the pink vaults
of the peonies open;
In an iridescent second, a hummingbird
twirls inches from my face.
Pennies spot the sidewalk — so bright,
I believe they would smile if they could.
And if kindness were air, the rooms of my house
expand with it.
Breathing deeply is simple, and hope
is the natural choice.
Poem On What Would Have Been My Mother’s 90th Birthday
In less than a second, it appeared —
not a flash exactly, more like
a snapshot that fit
in the frame of my chest:
my heart had a throne —
she sat there
reigning over everything.
Painting by Steve Johnson. Find him on Instagram at @artbystevej.