Today we begin a week of poetry. 

by Madeleine French

I drive two lanes: one for each daughter.
White and yellow lines stitch my heart
—I sew them fast and barefoot—
toes on pedal, fingers on fabric.

I thumb two text chains, humming with
GIFs and mom jokes. With each other,
there’s radio silence. They know I won’t
get in the middle of this. (Whatever this is.)

Basting anxiety to acceptance
—silky thread spun
of time and temper—I drive on.
Along the curb, dandelions flower

through sandy gray dirt; tiny heads in
lemon berets or snowy net fascinators.
Maybe they disagreed—
each bloomed her own way.

At a red light with the top down,
their milky-grass scent tickles
my nose in the warm breeze.
Almost home, my wheels climb

from weary bridge to causeway, where
golden floss dividers quilt the asphalt.
Sunlight makes swords of pearl filament.
I gaze up, squinting salt-stung eyes.

Might a few seeds cross this turquoise bay
and take hold? Might that be enough?
Amber blossoms dance on dry grass, and
Silver puffs soar, light with longing.

Photo by Kate Cullen on Unsplash