Unanchored

Roots can rot? you asked,
as we wrought our tiny garden.

Stilts of the screwpine, we stopped that woman
from breaking mother.
How proud I was to guide you
wherever father was missing,
yet our love now withers
on lines drawn by time and authority.

The golden-eagle kite
flutters, too fragile for the mountains,
echoes of childhood
on fading winds of memory.

Perfumes your clients gift
hover like restless shadows,
cheap incense in a hollow hall.

I still hear our songs;
you mute the world.
You own the sea;
my blush of rosacea
roots me home.

In the supermarket, I
share a crumbling smile
with that woman;
she carries a gentleness
mother never did.

Hope that one day you see—
father was never wrong.