April dailies

The last time
I wrote daily poems
during April

you printed them
and paperclipped them
in a sheaf.

I was so grateful
that you saw me
even a little.

When I spotted them
on your bedside table
my cup overflowed.

What would you say
to these
April dailies?

Maybe you'd be
mortified: too
confessional, too

exposing. Or maybe
you'd be glad
to be remembered.

Truth is, Mom,
I'm writing them
for me. The words

help me breathe,
help the channels
of my heart open

so that love
can pour through.
Dare I hope

that wherever you are
however you are
you understand?