Brushstrokes

Brushstrokes across my mother’s forehead,
planted neatly in rows and
interrupted with the occasional freckle.

Her disappointment rumbles from between her lips.

the pursed lips, crinkled and wilted
as if tasting the sourness
of fresh dandelion sap.

Thoughts and excuses and condolences
bloom like bluebells, each harsh syllable
tumbling from mouth to mouth.

the forsythia nervously dissected
between my fingernails shyly whines and
snaps like a small, lightning-struck tree.
drops of mangled weed dangle.

I step into her eyes with mine—
my gaze in hers might perhaps uproot
the treebranch veins along her thin,
pale cheeks or dust

with snowflakes the lonely, young
bluebells nestled beside her hyacinths.

Flowers will not grow this year.