I am sending you a poem about daughters, and Ireland -- a mother looking across years of loss and birth. I see you green like the hills of Ireland and the river in Chicago in March. I wish you could see me green, in college, blooming between the snowfalls. I am not yet half the who and when you've been. I am seeing myself in the green leaf stencils with a book my long legs folded under your college sweater. In spring we are born again from under the shadows of our inherited darkness. My snowheart melts, revealing hidden grass and petals but broken glass and old forgotten bottles long past lips, too. I am sending you this poem to tell you I am green like the hills of Iowa and the lakes in summer Madison. I want you to know that I have looked across loss of my own and that I sleep under the quilt from your heart and wake under the memory of life entwined with your hands on my soft skin.
27 April 2000