She was my biggest fan
when I was not even sure
of my words, always failing me
to get what was inside
on the outside

I was her biggest critic
(there was a time)
when I saw only anger
my way of grieving over a life
that could not be reversed

Here I am
twenty years past
thumbing through volumes
rifling over fabric scraps
to find a pattern
to answer questions

and all I see is love
through the eyes
of the mercy of time past
how she took reams of my words
sharing them
sowing them like seeds

then dead at 56
we were out of time
and any chance to bridge gulfs
and sew seams, but I remember
how we had pie and coffee
and laughed