I'm told that the sun dog lives

in an ice cave

covered in diamond dust

like thousands of baby suns

I walk blindly through cirrus 

memories, searching 

for signs of frosted flight

in apocalyptic towns

 

A feather to brush the sins from my path, 
a shower of rain to renew me. What lies 
have the years written in leaves,
in the lines on my mother’s face?

 

The book of her features is open,

I thumb through text of misdirection.

My mother is an illusionist that scatters

plumes from the beating wings of assumption.