by Karen Berry
A daughter will try to end the spring, stop the buds, the birds, the million shoots of grass that poke up to announce life has gone on. Earth will not mourn a mother. Nothing can beat back the rose canes, sprouting thorn and red-edged leaves, nothing will smooth the belly full of namesake, nothing. Earth will not mourn. Warm air will rise, and her blood, and her heart will pound relentless, though grief, it would seem, could stop it. It can't. Only a mother could stop the spring with her grief.
Karen Berry lives in a medium-sized house with small dogs and big daughters. She spends a lot of her time hard at work in the Pearl District of Portland, Oregon. Her poetry is published, her novels are not. The theatrical comedy mask chose her a long time ago and it fits perfectly.
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