by Lisa Poff

We were under the
Jacaranda when
the tree sneezed.
A gush of wind
had triggered it.
Purple petals engulfed
our bodies.

No blanket
separated us
from the Mother—
our spines hugged
the earth, our hair
covered in dirt.

We laid on our backs,
knees up,
as if we were stargazing,
except the celestial
bodies were bits of
afternoon light escaping
lavender lace and leaves.

One shoulder
one hip
one thigh
so close,
as if in a three-legged race,
but there was no reason to race—
just to be. 

We were so happy;
we didn’t speak.  



Lisa Poff is a single mom of two children—one with a rare medically complex condition. Writing poetry makes Lisa happy, and she hopes her readers feel a connection in this condition called living. Her poetry has been published in the anthology Stories That Need to Be Told, Crosswinds Poetry Journal, Runcible Spoon, Ghost City Review, and is forthcoming in the I Am Strength anthology.