Sunday, January 25, 2009
A Poem For Mom, From Me
I heard a man on the radio say that
if we did not have the expectation
of arriving home
we would not be able to bear the day.
I say that in the accumulation of days,
in their piling up like mountains --
though you may call mine a foot hill --
the view from the top is a panoramic homecoming.
I read that home is where your mom is,
Stitched on a lavender scented pillow,
with a ruffle around the edge.
This wisdom need not be taken literally.
From the top of my life's early mountain,
the clouds drift off to lower lands and
I see you in myself --
your reflection all around me in the unobstructed sky.
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