Legacies

Mother died at the honorable age of one hundred and one Born a Gemini, she died under a different constellation So familiar to us, her old life was different from everyone Without frills, pale pretences or any mental augmentation Mother was real, and she understood what I never forgave In her. All my life I wanted her to claim her material rights, To consume her pride on something defiant of the grave Of father that bequeathed her a wounded gourd with blights; To marshal us a promise that we could not see in our gift. All my life outside the edge of her experience I’ve yearned To castle her pedigree on the status of hope’s starved thrift And yet every offering I brought by her shrine was spurned. She had her wealth invested where nothing rust, and life For her was all she was giving to us. It was a strange gift The legacy she bequeathed us, and sometimes her truths knife Sorrows to our dreams, burden with no wind or song to lift Us from our extremes. Mother’s wealth was her children And for each of us again her God would empty his heaven.