How Do You Measure Love?
by Sharon Auberle

By an old letter the color of tea,
a photo tucked in a drawer,
Mama's rose-covered Mexican shawl
saved to warm me
for the day she'd be gone.

Spring is early this year,
the tulips she planted
beginning to emerge and dream often of her.
Sometimes she's pale and weak
sometimes young, vibrant
and laughing. We walk then
she and I, as we once did,
and I show her a crow's nest
high in the tall pine,
the white bones of a deer
returning to earth.

Outside dreamtime
the seasons turn.
They are no longer measured
by the size of my sorrow.

Saturday Nights at the Crystal Ball, published by Cross+Roads Press.

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