Impressions of Mother and I
My mother’s the wind in the fields of gold.
Cloud cover, her verdant parasol, optimistically high.
A capped child am I, and a small wittled sigh,
Before either one of us become very old.
Tall weeds are my pants, cerulean sky my shirt.
My mother’s long skirt with cyclone folds.
Like time passing, her cloud-countenance unscrolled.
We share a faraway look as the impish day flirts.
Does God capture such natural poses as ours?
Do angel fingers flutter through our family album?
Do these familiar winged creatures fancy the plum
of our faces, sunkissed or coldnipped by the stars?
7/16/2020
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