I have taken a hiatus; exchanged a cold urban sidewalk for the chill inside the forest. I have been walking in nature, and the wind has reminded me that I am happy.

My mother is fighting some sort of spartan virus...and I am trying to entertain her. She is a Minister, and is getting larengitis. This of course does not bode well for Easter Sunday. To distract her from worrying she will have no preaching voice tomorrow, I have introduced her to online fridge poetry.

My uncle laughs at me about this. "That's ridiculous," he says. "Why restrict yourself with the words you can use?" We have a discussion about the paradoxical inspiration of absurd constraints. He doesn't believe me.

My mother and I write this one together:

young woman of yesterday
picture window
more than those
who wear their steely smile
handing over life
she will make magic dance
by fire
remembering the secret
daughter of her desire

and we laugh together at this one:

yesterday you wet yourself
with my warm steamy secret
you throb caramel
will i wake soon
naked
like his morning kiss
i devour a laugh
and remember candy

I love my mother.