my mother kept a book of stories
sandcastles spilling over yellow pages
wrapped in leather black and brown with age.
my mother kept a book of sonnets
sandy milling grinding down her stages
set and cleared of actors with mirrored faces.
my mother kept a book of sketches
castles pulled down or stolen away
wrapped in plastic and tarpaulin cases
watercolor corpses from younger ages,
thousand-dollar bounty from starving sages.
my mother kept a book of sands
pens and hands and a beach of breakers
washing dreams she stole out to sea and anchor
oceans deep with sunken towers.
My mother kept a folio
and each year, she added a page.