Hillside Dream

In a tiny cabin clinging to the emerald edge

of a lush flower strewn meadow

the pale weave of Queen Anne’s lace

bobbing golden poppies

nodding at the breeze

strolling through the purple thistles

and red clover that enticed

the sweet drowsing bees

to dance a mother may I

on the deep warm air

that stirred the golden hairs on my forearm
resting in the sun on the worn wooden railing
splintering with the rise and fall of seasons
of sun and rain and knife edge frost and there,
with the meadowlarks aria,
and the bickering Stellar’s jays
and insistent tattoos of a pileated woodpecker
hammering his way into spongy old bark
and the haze of early morning fog
yet clinging to the dark pond
stirring with water skimmers
and dragonfly nymphs
here I took a breath in with my eyes
as if I had been drowning in the dark dawn
took a breath of this great blessing of stout oak
and leaning fir and long green grass
a lady bug wandering amid my arm hairs
I smelled the heat rising around me
with every beat of my heart
and gorged on the warm air again
scudding gravid clouds
at the horizon shedding promises
of rain at the grass glinting greenly
and took in that last breath
and thought
this is the only life I’ve ever known. 
God, what a thing you have done. 

For My Mother

My mother was

Up to her elbows in dish water,

Her voice husky

As she stared out the window at the evening traffic

Or at nothing.

I stood next to her, drying while she washed.

My father gone but a few short years,

It was Christmas

And the memories tugged at her apron strings,

Pulling her back to grief.

I wish I had a basketful of ironing

Just now.

The calm assurance of routine,

Chores worn into her fingers,

Her tired face.

I could say nothing just then

But felt the tears well up.

I put my arm across her shoulders,

For just a moment.

She glanced at me, saw my tears.

Oh, honey. I’m sorry.

Then.

It’s okay Mom.

Though we both knew it wasn't.

But would be someday.