she reminded me that the sparrows would sing

the most sensational song, even if i didn’t stop to hear it, 

but i should stop to hear it

 

that the dust dancing in the wind 

to the sounds of the streets deserved a moment 

of pause, that the lilacs ripe in bloom for only this moment 

 

may return to their slumber, if i concede. she reminded me 

that in hoping to be heard, you must speak from your stomach, 

not your throat, that ginger root will soothe the soul as well 

 

as a sour tummy, that added to lemon balm and calendula 

will create the recipe for just about any ailment, she reminded me 

that god can be whatever you want it to be, whatever you need it to be

 

it can be a green light when you’re ten minutes past

it can be the glove box granola bar when you’ve skipped your lunch

it can be the cashier who compliments your hair when you wished 

 

all day you had none, it can be you when your mother remembers 

her mother’s anniversary, and you encourage her to cling to the things 

she has left, like the tree you would gather at, which is no longer a tree, 

 

but a stump, so you gather at the stump and your mother mourns,

the tree that offered its immensity and shelter, the sparrows their singing, 

absent since the tree, the lilacs now uprooted along with the sparrow's grief 

 

and in that sorrow, you remember to remind her of all the laughter 

you shared under that great sycamore, and how the songs sounded, 

and how sweet the flowers smelled, and how, when the benches moved in 

 

you still preferred to break your backs perched under the shade of its leaves

and your mother, her sorrows begin to smile, not fade. adjoining her, united in remembering. they remembered the dust dance and the sparrow's song, 

 

and they too enjoyed the scent of the lilacs, so we sat, 

backs hunched, wallowing along with our sorrow as they laughed, 

like they never had and we missed her, like hell, reminiscing 

under the guise of grief, remembering for the purpose of joy