It must have been spring.
There’s the smell of wet earth,
the absence of cold. I lift my head
and above me, suddenly,
are shards of light, sharp green leaves
—a willow maybe—and the sun
in its branches, pressing through,
breaking into pieces. My mother
is close by—I am aware of her hair,
her quick hands—but far enough away
that I feel held by something else
—the air, the willow branches,
the fingers of the sun.