recording gentle

a warm winter afternoon,
barely dancing leaves still securely attached
to a small bush at the center of our picture window,
as if they belonged there forever.
patches of sunlight framing the neighbor’s damp,
leftover autumn leaves, my sister-in-law walking by
on her way home, looked up at our house,
not knowing I waved from the couch.
she could not see me here, waiting
and not waiting, listening and breathing in ideas
both deep and mundane, the significance of night dreams
about poverty, violence, and deception beside plans
to bake brownies for New Years Eve.
around the edges, filling in the cracks,
a gentle whisper, my mother, cancer, her grief
and anger passing, determination growing,
but not what you might think, form a new color
that is drawn through every other moment,
a silvery teal, beautiful really.