Flowers in a Ball Jar
I see in the B, her generous swirls,
her upward curve, the everything’s alright
of Barbara-with her fine cigarettes,
glasses of wine, the aroma of bread
she toasted for me, dripping with butter,
bubbling cinnamon-the jar with her name,
Barbara née Ball, my mom,
and spilling from the edges, the ring
of wide-open flowers.
Laura Foley likes to sit in the woods near her home in Vermont and listen to the stillness, the birds, and her dogs.