Your grandchildren are beautiful.
Watching them play, I search
their faces for you, for the
genetic breadcrumbs that will
lead me out of the dark tangled
wood and back into your arms.
I wonder at the witch and her oven,
off from where the path splits,
thinking at times: will I follow you,
will they? What did we inherit:
your eyes, your laugh, the shape
of your mouth, a certain inclination
towards cellular mutation and
getting lost in the woods.
My children bring me flowers,
bright yellows, fragrant white
petals, and their smiles chase
the witch and her oven away,
and I remember bringing you
flowers on Mother’s Day and
being the smile that chased
away the witch for you,
if only for a while.