Chicano Poet

Thursday, June 10, 2010

The Nickel

My mother floats above me.
She is the size of a nickel.

The wind is blowing in its box.
The box has feelers waving.

The sun had tried its best to warm me
while mother was away.

The clouds spit ice into their palms.
The trees were snowmen.

The hills lie flat
so I can see over them.

There’s a smile on the coin now,
and I can see it standing on its edge.


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