By Janet Paszkowski

She hugs me from behind
my face in the mist
of a mirror

While standing beside fertile pots of yellow daises and forget-me-nots, my neighbor Betsy and I boasted about our bulging bellies and ballooning breasts.

We labored in adjacent stork-bordered hospital rooms as
amber leaves swirled to the ground. I toted my daughter home in a gingham-lined basket; her baby was buried in a brass-hinged casket.

The following winter, through icy window panes, I watched a moving van haul a hollow crib away beside the lawn where my daughter's soggy mittens had whooshed angel wings into the downy snow that fell that day.

Now, as I light 18 candles on my daughter's flickering cake, I add one more in memory of forget-me-nots and fate.

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The first line of this reverse haibun poem is excerpted from Rod Wilmot's original haibun poem, "Ribs of Dragonfly."

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