drips from the wet ends of my hair...

drips from the wet ends of my hair
feel like bold print asterisks when they explode
on the inky surface of my skin

but despite my absolution
I’m still quivering in my father’s chair
like the wrung out dishrag I’ve become
cleaning up messes and forgiving trespasses
like all patient mothers are meant to do

it occurs to me that
saplings bend and sway with the seasons
but older trees grow brittle and break
crashing down to the prairie floor
too many tire swings hung on their branches
too many curse words carved in their trunks
eventually they twist and fall

and I am growing taller every day