The square window video-calls the hydrangeas.
The deeper their colors grow, the harder the rain falls.
The photograph taken with my mother
becomes a lap blanket I can never fold away again.
Have you eaten? A greeting fallen silent.
I sink into an unoccupied chair.
An open book of poems, a sign that reads Absent.
An evening curled inward, its face erased.
The deeper the hydrangeas grow in color,
the more longing becomes tens of thousands of birds.
June’s heart deepens into darker hues,
and the face diminished within me stands in for the words, “I miss you.”
Like black shoes stretched out of shape, it is impossible to throw away.
On the windowsill, I call my mother.
The hydrangeas send a video letter.
As their colors deepen,
I pluck the fine hairs of longing from beneath the wall.
