A little bit about being a Mom

My daughter brings me presents
When she comes back
From her walks, her bike rides

Look, Mama, this is a good bolt
Is this Chamomile
A feather black, twisted and spent

There are rules to this ritual
Dead things stay where they are
Even if they're cool

Don't touch anything
Sharp or rusty or too unknown to you
I'll come and see it instead

These treasures live in pockets
All over the house, in vases for a while
In memory, hers & mine, for always