the poetry of place

It’s funny the things we inherit from our parents
Whether by nature or nurture

my mother wrote kind and thoughtful messages in every card
with nary a period in sight,
always with dashes —
making her writing mimic her talking,
like a stream of conversation
where the dashes marked listening and waiting
for what might come next —
breath held waiting
for a fish to jump in the marsh
or a dragonfly to swirl around
or the bumpety-bump of the tires across the old wooden bridge

It’s funny how much like her I am.