Your mother handed
her happiness at birdsong
down to you.
You kept it
hidden away but today
pulled it out from
a hidden pocket and
put it on:
a wren locket
on a cardinal chain
and now is that sound
of you crying, or is that
a mockingbird we hear?
It had to have learned
that melody somewhere.
Somewhere
in memory
a young girl
dances madly
in a mirror
to the warble
of your tears.
Dark Matter 
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