Mother

I would send you a photo, but you should really

see for yourself. She is not just a sight, but also

a place--one where you can go, a whole atmosphere of pink and white; a city of

barnacled branch; a monument of

fullness and fragility.

So much of her is already gone--

there on the grass, a mosaic of

oxidizing petals--and yet,

she is missing nothing.

Her blooms are more outstretched this year than I've ever seen; her canopy, so vast that

when we go for a walk, a tall friend says--look, look! And he's right, it's her, over there above the roofs, speaking to the town in

petals.

Her arms have grown so long that

when I stand beneath her, the light actually

changes to a peachy-pink, and I forget

what time is.

Like when we were kids making forts with

pinkish-toned sheets or when,

on weekend mornings--remember?--

Mother would fling upwards the duvet,

balloon it high over our four year old faces

and, for that instant, before it fell, we lived

in a globe of pink, of giggling womb of

woman-held delight.

That is what it feels like to

stand beneath our magnolia

this February: a blanket never falling,

a Mother

all around.