Baby blue stitches,
little crossed threads creating denim patterns;
though fading in the elbows.
She paints oranges, develops photos of her sisters,
and captures footage of the Cinquefoil flowers.
She wraps her arms around her brothers,
and laughs loudly;
honeydew hope is held in her eyes.
On a basking blanket between two Cottonwood trees,
with a short story collection between her palms,
her face begins to freckle—
beneath her full eyebrows,
and on her soft shoulders.
She is in the wind, and will grow weary,
belly swells as baby grows—
resting her spine on the bed,
as she pulls splinters from her fingers.
Gray strands emerge from her scalp,
woven throughout her cocoa curls;
it holds the air of the forest,
and unravels beneath streams of warm water.
A lively life looms,
indigenous to encouragement.
Her heart is held,
familiar to a full mind—
but not foreign to today.
I think she understates,
how many good traits she received from her mother;
how they both speak with words that break the bones of death,
and shift tides with a whisper.
Poem, written + read: Regan Smith
Music, written + recorded: Ricky Smith
Cover photo, courtesy of Elizabeth Miller