Glass: A Journal of Poetry Volume Two Issue One       

Gina Ferrara

Etched in Graphite 

When the mimosas bloomed
in shades of watermelon
and began their silent
cascade in wisps and brushes
like days falling after equinox
into the tall grass,

your mother, who loved me
like I was her own,
held her bright red yardstick--
numbers and dashes enunciating

inches on plywood behind the shed,
etched in graphite pencil, her plain cursive
identifying us

with a thick horizontal line
that marked exactly
how high we stood.