Janet Sleeper Frostad

Wind filled cheeks flapping like fresh laundry,
lightness left tangerine trails in gray clouds.
A woman moves fast when untethered,
speeding past cares that twirled toward
earth’s tapestry like so many dandelion parachutes.
I once lied about a boy who died soon after.
I never set it straight. He settled on the red roof
of a small farm house. The child I couldn’t carry
caught in the arborvitae. In the tender
fields of newly planted wheat, my mother
and her sadness softly landed. For a moment
I considered gathering them up before
they were mistaken by another as their own
gossamer memories, but thought better
of it and left them for the wind.