the mother wakes,
first light entered several hours past.
What is not,
is the gaze through what is barely veiled,
The expectation. Hope. The waiting.
Today, the youngest lies close, taking comfort.
the swell of gratitude at
the swell of the voice of the oldest,
rooms but not walls.
mother welcomes rest. Late. Sighs unwind themselves from every tangled daytime worry, failed plan,
She closes eyes against silence, thankful for it.
And in between,
in the seeming eternity of the day in day out mundane cliche of workload,
and only when she forgets, which is often,
will she welcome the abyss.
How can she be lonely?
The name held in mind, but not often leaving
as the ones
And somehow, still,
in this continuance, she loses morning, daily.
Striving, in the after of the bask,
also, sight and way.
but not the
Not all the time. Still, time lapses along with memory and so she recreates a semblance of
She knows too much and not enough.
Somewhere beyond the
the formless flicker and its flight,
is a promise to follow
away from the rise.
She knows this:
somewhere in the middle
is the beginning
and the end.
Some unaltered moment waits for notice.
If she could say what she knows not how to say, however slight,
she thinks she
might find power in surrender, release
she commences to remember.
The Sunday Whirl