She Sang in the Morning

This is a photo of me with my mother when I was about 9 months old. The poem follows.


She sang in the morning
as she softly reassured daybreak
from under the warm covers of her embrace

She sang in the morning
as she settled like dew on thick tufts
before all the stars could evaporate

She sang in the morning
as she serenaded robins and sparrows
who flitted about in serene commotion

She sang in the morning
as she wove a crown of baby's breath
and white doves flocked to her side

She sang in the morning
as she gently caressed my brow
etching her needlepoint onto my DNA

Joy

At a lakeside cabin built by the bare

hands of her one true love, to whom

she gave herself at eighteen, on a wooded

mountain, an old, smiling woman

beholds fond memories flash

in sun glints on the crystal, blue water

of the placid lake in the distance

below, as Joy caresses savory moments

before letting each slip by. She still sees

herself with her husband as they toiled,

hand-in-hand, through the opportunities

of sunrises and each new midday

challenge. Her eyes sparkle

as she describes a lingering moment

of chance when a mountain lion crept

across the cabin's deck railing,

and how the big cat paused, majestically,

serenely enjoying the lake view stretch

out in the distance. The warmth

in the old woman's voice glows as she

speaks of deer in the snow, flying

squirrels swooping out from trees,

raiding nut caches strewn about

on the deck, and hummingbirds

darting and flitting here and there

as they feed. The lines of time carved

upon the old lady's face inscribe her

story, the creases etched into her hands

reveal the loving struggle she shared

with her husband. The stoop in her walk

from carrying the burden of sacrifice

for her family slows the old woman's

gait as the shuffling strides hint

at autumn's fanciful passing

into the slowly approaching, brilliant

radiance of Joy's winter sunset.