I drive my son to his medical appointment,
through white streets, under a roof of white-gray.
Last night a silent sheet billowed down,
covering first signs of Monet appearing.
The maple is now a cotton tree,
tiny rusty-red and gold lined buds
clumped in white.  "Look Orion,"
I say. "It's a white day."
"That won't last long, Mom,"
says my four-teen-old pragmatist.

My teenager's low blood pressure will rise
with spring, I know.  Still, we both
remember his sudden fall to the floor.
This time, we'll agree to medication,
something rare in my house, something
I hate to take or give to my children.

In the examining room, Dr Able,
(yes, that is her real name!) smiles
at Orion.  Friends through humor,
she finds Orion amusing.
He wears shorts in 10 degree weather,
races wheel chairs through
the halls (during his last appointment)
saying, "I always wanted to do this,"
and is taller than she is.
Dr Able is African American
with twinkling eyes.
Orion asked me to switch doctors
the day we met her, when his other
doctor was out of town.  Absolutely.
I know a good doctor when I see one, too.

With the hypotension medication ordered,
we leave.  I drive through this veiled
white sheet unraveling in the warm air
on our way to the pharmacy.
Prince sings on the radio, "Little red corvette..."
Orion plays a game on my ipad - trying
to better his highest score. "Mom, I did it!"
My red hundai elantra slushes through the streets.
I am taking it all into my brain, as best I can,
every piece... every moment...
every laugh... every word...
like a mom and, hopefully too,
like a poet.