You blow in the wind -

an invisible wisp -

I see you

I feel you

I taste you

skittering ahead.

Reaching for you

my fingers

plunge through

ethereal film.

My illusions

are not

just castles

in the air,

for you

will always be

cradled

within my heart.

Oil stained, buttoned, except for the top two, the rumpled pink housecoat fit like an old glove in love with bones while she cooked up her signature again, just for me; potato pancakes.

"Ju wan som' Pepsi Cola wit dhat?"

And I didn't have to answer; her cup runneth over.

They call EB kids “Butterfly Children”

(delicate skin, delicate wings).

But you, my daughter,

are a monarch,

flying great distances

to follow your path—

each, any chosen path—

with absolute purpose.

Monarchs are loved and known

for their beauty, true, but

moreso because we know

how far they will fly,

and if we have wisdom enough,

self-possession enough in the moment,

we know our privilege in sharing

their brief stay nearby.

Tower reaching hallowed sky

gleaming purest white,

polished gold and ivory

trimmed with moonlight.

Pools of pearled glass

lay at rooted feet,

and stairs of diamond

spiral up to suite.

Fire in the hearth,

a chair for her guest

her heart, inviolate home,

for weary souls, as I, to rest.