My aunts gathered me up in a childhood of a visiting blossom
                                                                                               boy.
Not once was I criticised for telling stories in the steps of spring.
Payments were delivered on plates of banana cakes, scones and
                                                                                             cream.
The sisters went into the rooms of my novels as novel aunts.
Each knew the fabric of clothing; the whimsy stitching of love.
I grew up on a word crop, walking trails on an aunt's farm.
The ladies of the knight nuzzled me like a favourite animal.
Their stories became umbrellas, held up as the world rained.
Glad hands were used to intimately cook up the dreams of others.
I knew the dishes of theirs in a different kitchen and restaurant.
They were unable to dress anymore in tall coats of babies.
I saw them rise in drifts of leaves to fly over their families.
What they dropped cleaned faces - after all it was a dream.
Of laughter in flocks of large birds that were never seen.