by Candace Turner
On Wednesday mornings
she hangs each blanket
on a makeshift bowed clothesline.
By dusk they will
sun scents & dry desert breezes.
Each blanket holds
a child’s memory.
Her heart knows they’re not
coming back to their tribal beginnings.
Often on quiet starlit nights
she hears tired mattress springs creak
and the snuggle shush of a body’s sighs
safe, secure under a warm blanket.
sway like signal fires.
You are missed.