Snowball 1.0

The word makes me happy. Snowball. The happiness and the word come from somewhere deep inside. I dig for the source of the happiness, and there, at the centre, is a snow ball bush. The ball-flowers are immense. I'm little, standing on the front lawn of the family home. The bush is flowering overtop, and through the flowers, the sun. A ball of sun, the snowball of flowers, and my mother, her own ball of warmth, the heart-centre of my small world, her glowing aura of yellows and oranges.

the tree
i thought dead
at night i dream you
fresh as life 


Snowball 1.1

The photo is cracked in that way of old photos, old memories. My big sister, a long-legged colt of a child in the photo, holds a kitten, its legs dangling from her grasp. Oh look, Snowball, our cat, she tells me. But I don't remember a cat, nor previous family conversations about one. Who is this family cat of which no one spoke? All those childhood years of pestering my mother for a pet. Pets die, she had dismissed the topic, no room for discussion. Your suffering would be unbearable.

Siddhartha's father
builds higher castle walls 
to keep out sorrow--
the cut flowers in the crystal vase
are wilting anyway

Published in Atlas Poetica 23 

© Marianne Paul 2011