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 barnicled branch;

monument of fullness and fragility.

So much of her is already gone,

on the grass, a mosaic of

oxidizing petals--and yet

she is missing nothing, a vision of

abundance and generosity.

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 man says

look, look! And he's right, it's her,

speaking to the town

in petals.

Her arms have grown so long, that

when you stand beneath her, the light actually

changes to a peachy-pink, and I forget

what time it is.

Like when we were kids and made forts with a

pinkish-toned sheet or when,

on weekend mornings--remember?--

our mother would fling upwards the

duvet, balloon it 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.