Drew the Ace of Pentacles

sat under vine
in shadow,
in the dappled, I
not wanting to pin
what I see to the I
like the butterfly
under glass, threading leaves,
but to keep up
with the cloudless
sulfur butterfly, like the boy
on a scooter, I bend
toward possibilities
not to trade one fear
for another, shadow
for vine, my mother
chattered at me
like a sparrow
and for years
I took everything
personally: the revving
of the pickup, orange
trumpet vine, stench
of exhaust, even her grief
became militarized,
all storm, the droplets
sliding off the F-150
idling, skunk
by the roadside, possum
on the median, more
downpour, and my view
washes away. You will lose
everything: trumpet vine, mother,
truck pulling out of the carport,
engine growling beyond
what I can perceive, fences,
cages, not far from here.
There are no ethics
to despair, we crawl
to the future, like sad children
cocooning to sad teens,
chickadees on a wire
through which who-knows-what
speeds: our blossom-
clad riots and the season
that comes after
with its thunder
and hush.