Mother in the Morning

Was recently re-reading Mother in the Morning. The impact this little poem had always startles me, when I really think about it. It was my first piece accepted for publication (Bim, May '09) and was a contender for Chicken Soup for the Mother's Soul. I love it so dearly because it reminds me of those early days of writing, the sense of discovery, that tremulous feeling of being just on the edge of something. Thought I'd share it here, along with a drawing.

Much love.
Dani

Mother in the Morning

Mother sips tea in her garden on mornings,

abandoning the kitchen that echoes with breakfast,

lunch kits, laces untied, and the dripping faucet.

She sits on a cracked footstool in complete silence

as the heat from the teacup rises up

whispering warm, comforting secrets

only she can understand.

There are sharp things in the ground

and her hands are soft

yet she never wears gloves.

She is not afraid of the damp, dark earth

with its shards of buried glass and crawling creatures.

She has planted hope with her own hands,

seen it grow tall, and bright with butterflies.

When my mother’s hands are in the dew- damp dirt

and she is fragile in the quiet morning light

I can see the shapes of sharp things buried in her.

I realize how the fluorescent kitchen light dims her,

hides that secret flower she is growing

That can only be seen in morning light,

and blooms only when she does.