My mother at a window seat
her fingers on a cold
marble bust,
despite the heat
becoming an entire row of light.
her fingers on a cold
marble bust,
despite the heat
becoming an entire row of light.
By the angle of her body she
told me how to live –
an alphabet spelling out my need
to look across a lawn: then,
the sun having somewhere to be and not to be,
its daffodil yellow heading down,
or across the
motherless fabrics of lost afternoons, fields of heirloom seeds
in colors of the sounds of my mother’s voice,
told me how to live –
an alphabet spelling out my need
to look across a lawn: then,
the sun having somewhere to be and not to be,
its daffodil yellow heading down,
or across the
motherless fabrics of lost afternoons, fields of heirloom seeds
in colors of the sounds of my mother’s voice,
teaching me:
forsythia is this one, surprising our silver, wire fence
crabapple, the eat-less fruits pinging against our deck
azalea –
wait, and wait,
and wait again.
Why does the sun do this kindness?
It comes back.
It comes back.
