This is what a mother knows: doors
are meant to be opened, drawers
to be rifled through, faces
to be moved to tears. Tides
are controlled by moons, bodies
by their footprints, hearts
by the strings that tug on them. Gates
are temporary, like shadows,
like words. Conversations
with the dirt beneath our toes
reveal truths, bricks
reveal histories. Cracks in the pavement
tell us about what we've been missing,
and just for a second,
about what we might, just for an instant,
have a chance at becoming.
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