Late afternoon sunlight blinks
like my gold molar when I laugh.
It jokes among the honeysuckle leaves
that hug the cherry tree.
They are mapped with age spots and veins,
frustrated at their fading.
On the third shelf up,
surrounded by fiction books and poetry,
the photograph of my mother as a little girl
stares from a frame made of mother-of-pearl,
her eyes directed towards a waste bin
overflowing with words printed on old skin
with the life blood of countless trees –
words discarded by me.
Kim M. Russell, 15th September 2020