Email Poem

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Personal Note:

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Poem

Her day is spent gathering straw
And baking in the sun,
Tucking little pale-petaled things into the soil, 
And finally surrendering to the web of the evening
Unfurling into a deck chair to listen to the night
The silvery notes from the trees thread tenderly over

There was a spot on the floor
I would come home, next to the wall,
And I would drop everything
To lie there, on my side, greeted  by the welcome abrasion of the beige carpet
Listening to the hum of the kitchen,
The house was asleep but I was free
To quietly drink up these last bits of childhood 

I had that, but now it is only an echo
Something to fish out of my my pocket
To look at, inspect, as it glows weakly
Between the lines of my hands
I shouldn't complain,
Have I really earned the right 
In my life, to feel regret? 

I shouldn't mind getting older

Mom does it so well, The lines in her face reflect little more than a pearl-woven solitude And a calm and steady love for her children
And as I am one of them,
I tell myself that's all anyone needs,
I am for one moment soothed into sleep

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