My mother

by Terry Ofner
The Waters
Honorable Mention, December 2021
Judged by Terence Culleton


is what’s left of October,
the damp part. She takes me in it
to the overgrown orchard
to see the bird.

We dress in dun shades.
Walk standing still.
Wet wood. Weeds.
Color is on the inside

folded in mist or a wing.
It’s time to hunker or vacate.
The shape of hush.
Nothing sings.

An ocean of air above us.
She moves through, parting the way.



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