― For my mother
 
Should I see another summer
sharing snow with valley streams
that stretch across the timberline 
as if lines held no meaning
between waters flowing
bubbling their blessing
upon mountain feet
 
―how beautiful
remembering
                                
                              health to thy navel

Should memory
turn a blanket of thatch
waiting for spring’s tenderness
and sleep come to my dew-imbued
lashes as a common poorwill
laid against its resting-time
concealed by the stone
of flightless wings
 
―how soft the silk feels
against my mind

                            put on thy garments
 
Should I newly dressed live no more
I will live
to behold the moon’s unveiling:
I will live
a breast apart from her bosom
not alone and forsaken
by sister-sounds and children playing
but among their bundled sheaves
 
―now it is returning
flooding back to me:
the taste of colostrum
 
       oh! thy milk
 
                       is marrow in my bones