Reflection On My Youth

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