Wednesday, September 06, 2006

Mother Bear

We're feral -
back to the womb.

We climb
over you,
snuggle under
soft flaps of your skin,

sniff, gently
push away
the hair streaking
your cheek.

You are our burrow,
and our mother

we must
give you back
to the elements,

to the ground, air
and shit,

into fire, water and

In and out
you go,

into white

parts of you
eloping into

So what connects us now

as the
concertina tube
blows in and out,

as your eyes
remain shut,

your toes out of
the bottom of
the bed to cool?

Two perfect white socks
pointing up
in the air.

I held your hand.
It was warm;
it was brown -

all those afternoons
in the sun
in our backyard

surrounded by geraniums
stone models of

Yes, warm.

What else is there?
This - a
silver cross?

Today you lay
in a white nightie top,
on a white pillow
among white sheets

A snowdrop
in Winter.

We brushed and plaited
your hair:
one bobble at the
one at the top.

Said goodbye.
You opened your eyes.

This is the hardest.

a breeze through the
open car window burns my cheeks;

I see a moon, three quarters full.

Kind of beautiful
up there.

My phone rings.

1 comment:

Joseph Knecht said...

Sit silent and tight.
Hear that whisper, at night.
Can you hear it?
As never before, the tremoring pulse of the world
is fading:
Earth is giving birth to a tree.

You are the light.