As she rushes toward Mom,
the white polka dotted green skirt
flaring behind her, as if a breeze
were blowing her hair behind her,
Mom, tall and elegant, turns to
face her, looking down sympathetically,
mid-stride, she will, no doubt,
squat down to eye-level and discuss
the major issues of Mira's moment,
immersing herself in a world far
from climate and war, from groceries
and lunch menus, the rain, everything
else will dissolve into meaninglessness
as she gazes into Mira's face
waiting to listen, listen very
carefully
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