Mother, I’ve painted my nails the color of you
Black cherry the color of composure
In the light they brighten like the red handlebars of my bicycle in the sun
In my wicker basket I carry wildflowers and dreams
And the weight of it rests in your arms
You make the wilderness sweeter, your dessert from berries off the vine
That summer my room was a constant breath of vanilla, soaked into the carpets and in my hair
The familiar sweet scent of your dolls brought down from the attic
I noticed the frills
Because you talked about how you adored watching little house on the prairie
And wished you could wear your hair in ringlets and wear their modest gowns
Yet you said just as often how you loved to be outside until the sun would go down
So yes, my grandmother fought other mothers in the toy aisle in the 80’s for their doll
Your doll
My doll
And the house now called ours is surrounded by a beautiful woods
And I see that what matters are the times
when you linger on vanilla and the fruits of summer