I remembered what I was going to write about yesterday: sustainable transportation versus independence. I'm not in the mood right now, though, so I'll just throw the poetry update at you guys.

This is called My Mother's Vial, and it's written in the classic ballad form: alternating tetrameter and trimeter, as well as an abcb rhyme scheme.

This vial, in my mother's hand,
Her face turned to the wind.
It blew the dust of corn harvest
Across the hills; the tin

Plant, vile blight that it was, was
Blowing, porous pouring
To the sun. A china company
Used to hold there, blowing

Glass vials for lady's perfumes,
But now it's gone. A gift
From her mother, this small, fine craft
Glimmered among her favorite

Jewels – vials, lace, such things a young
Girl might want. This diamond
Has held perfume, has held her tears;
It held her cardamom,

Oregano, such things to flavor
What is not sweet. A pile
Of books she left me, and this: her
Life, stopped within this vial.