Your son naps beneath mural of Grove of The Patriarchs,
on hot Texas afternoon, sweaty sleepy, post park,
You nurse him on his own big bed, kiss damp curls,.
in the room that was yours until you made it his,
the room I decorated with rainbows for you
before you were born, the room from which I rescued
you at three from raging midnight flames, the room
whose furniture you rearranged so many teen age nights,
the room in which "You are My Sunshine".still echoes.
in the voice of your father, dead before memories settled.
You left at seventeen, started college early, found love,
made a home, made art, longed for babies, cried, laughed,
built strong marriage, took your husband to your sanctuary,
of cool misty air, soft filtered light, life rising from life.
Grove of the Patriarchs on slopes of Mt. Ranier,
took off your shoes and lay, silent, vulnerable, still
within ancient circle of holy trees, barren among
nurse logs, You lost a daughter, gave birth to a son,
brought him home to your grove within his own room.
Your son naps beneath mural of Grove of Patriarchs.
May 25, 2010