My mom’s stool

Stools are like ladies, in brown, of old wood.
Their spirit endures, like that of past women
Who live beyond their existence and color
In sons' black and white memories in sleep.

This one keeps  awake on the cold balcony, 
Sniffing  night air spread by the fourth moon .
When you open the door to the old balcony 
It makes odd affectionate sounds on the floor
Like postmen pushing letters through the door.

We stand on its soul  to reach our light-bulbs ,
Our feet terribly wobbly , but our souls stable
In an earth-sky chain that connects vast spaces
And standing on it we often reach out to mom.


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