When I was little( I believed in magic)
I believed in (the infinite possibilities of) life
Nature and (her)snow carving out toy in flakes
My life (as beautiful as the paintings) of still lives
That hung in my mother’s studio

Her lines were defined and defiant
However (they were beautiful)
Each one (the only thing soft and uncertain)

Was me I was the shell she receded into like a snail
Her cocoon, teaching me was another opportunity to begin her life again

Artists from around the world called me either her muse or une partie d’elle -a part of her

I would go along to shows with her and
Fiercely hold her hand as if we could not be parted

We (co-existed )as one
No one could share our world
And to be (another ) human
Was to be (my mother and) me