at first I counted days, weeks, moons soon it became seasons, halves, years my things, his things, relegated to boxes rehomed, repurposed, displaced these things I must live with and without let go, or hold I am not the mother I was before this there is no recovering it cannot be healed how many times can I say I miss you? my hair silvers itself now, beneath the moon
—Iona Winter, A Counter of Moons













