MAMAs AT THE SHORE
They call it pancake ice.
Flipping our minds.
Imagine the river
as maple syrup.
Mama’s at the shore
in an old-fashioned apron,
smiling, waiting
to see if we feast
on all the pancakes.
That is when we know
it is Spring, and
I see her again
dressed to the nines.
I can reach out
and talk to her
and we can talk
of days gone by,
like when Dad cried
for months at a time.
He comes to her
in the pancake boat.
Dad says her lips
taste like maple syrup
…and forever.
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