the morning after my mother died
my son made me breakfast, brought it to me
in bed, stepping softly over dropped reminders
of grief, followed by a dog chasing crumbs
he balanced a tray of eggs and bacon
toast and jam, no flowers, it was mid-December
winter’s first month, the year’s last
and there would be flowers soon enough
he brought two apples carved into swans
long necks, ruffed wings, watchful eyes
of pitch seed, gracing a chipped green plate
apples sculpted into swans with a paring knife
making anything possible, bearable, believable
— from Juniper Volume 7, Issue 2