by Vivian M. Carroll
In a grainy black-and-white movie
my mother waves
from a white horse.
She could be Georgia O’Keeffe
astride a Harley.
Naming me after a bird & flower,
she sprinkled atlas seeds on my eyes,
left blank pages for me to paint.
A sunset journey pulls her away.
Tracing her roots I drive east.
Roadside
deer-eye daisies nod.
Thistle spikes
bloom shadows
across rusted rails.
A red-wing blackbird’s
three-pitch song trills
time-to-stop, time-to-stop.
Fireflies garland indigo skies.
Nautilus curved
my mother sleeps
on a birch bark bed.
At dawn
I throttle through pale pink,
music hubbing
around an old 8-track.
Chevelle tires spin, clomp, gallop.
Hooves scoop out dust trails.
Hunched to horsehide
I ride bareback
wind rippling a white mane.