haibun || Sheila E. Murphy

Mother's Day
Is there (there is) zilch pinned to filched day drams dreamed lavish quintessential 
various. No matter norms beam hope. The fins thin-jostle morning through the wash
of would-be lines. Infinity at least charms dime-a-dozen peaks across from vales.
You might have noticed sails along the universe whose melodies shape frost
when dime store days of yore went plentiful. Now shores are glossed, we read. 
And news, for all it's worth (its worth) redeems what dorms implant if luck
is left. There were a few residing stories plain to visual reversion. Then a soak
in lavender to bring on sleep. And veering into domiciles of soft free kismet.
Just what the doctor hors d'oeuvres. While many remedies look furry from afar. And
shoulder scar identifies my very own still visible non-catastrophe. I'm here, and
thanks to her I stay.

Rescue remedy, thin veil of ocean spray, the camisole, the lyre, and wish