first mother's day without ma my face in the mirror, ashen old, like a San Joaquin Valley clapboard barn, knothole flecked, termite gnawed, shaft light passes through still dark air illumes only ornate dust grains hung between severed planks, cracked beams that bow, as grass leaves, parched, sun burnt, wilt, ripe to kiss snug dirt, to sink in, betray.
from American History