On the 18th Anniversary of My Mother’s Death

First Appeared in Flash Glass

The sharp tack of autumn had not pierced the air 
that year she died, as it does here, each year, where I live.
Somehow last week that date went unheeded,

overwhelmed by lassitude or busyness
or random family worries,
a week of helping with the chaotic lives 

of grands and kids
dithering about the future
amid the confusion of daycare, school starts,

marriages stressed by current conflagrations–
work, substance abuse, fractures, dislocations,
low back pain, and imminent declinations of age.

Under the distracted brilliance of fall’s blue dome
before the onrushing Armageddon of heat, smoke
unnerving politics, inconsistency and overpopulation

I center myself with cerulean skies,
lingering smell of blooming roses,
dahlias unfurling curly petals along our waysides

the sun still radiant
before the start 
of our late season rain.

Laura Celise Lippman