Sunday, November 17, 2013


my hands look more and more
like my mother's hands
and yet they are my own
my mind is a slightly different turn from hers
but i hear myself laugh easily, like she did

i sit in her chair on the back porch
and look out at the hundred years' old oak
that speaks to the soul of ancientness and holding on
but the chair will change today
or maybe tomorrow

the space in front of the fireplace is bare
where she sat and waited in warmth
but something new will come for sitting
with bright and downy pillows
fuschia and azure and gold
and something else beside it
for setting a glass of wine
like she did, every afternoon
at four o'clock

i sleep in the bed that was hers
but it sits at a new angle
with new chi and new dreams
walls now a lovely deep warm gray
and new floors to be laid down soon
in a lighter wispier london fog
and the cabinet and millwork gnomes
are making an oak wall of bookshelves
with a magical passthrough space
to create a writing nook for letters and books

and everything inside me holds its breath
all full of reblessing and recreating this space
…surely goodness, mercy...