Mother's Day
Words never leave us like people will.
We keep up the sad appearance, the shrill
sentences rubbed raw, the frayed frill.
We do not talk of these forgotten things,
for only the recorded fact brings
the distortions of alabaster wings.
You remain just a surname mother,
put aside years ago, awaiting other
praise, the life emotions never utter.
We take no time to quote ourselves here.
Mutely, we wait revelation, the clear
crystal drinking glass with the white deer.
But there are no promises now or frames,
love's calligraphy is varicose veins.
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