Wednesday, December 5, 2007

Mother Oak


The old green oak
as the sky shades
from wild rose to
snow-shadow blue.
There's a glimmer
of silver from the hook
embedded in her solid trunk,
the smell of nasturtiums
and newly cut grass.
They hear her murmuring,
like a reminiscing mother,
"I remember, I remember,
how you two,
dewy young, swung in
the hammock,
your mahogany hair
long and blowing,
his shout of a laugh,
mockingbirds warbling.
You lay quietly too,
now and then,
happy alone together
while I fanned
or shaded you."

laugh as they tip the hammock,
and make it sway.
They toddle yawning off to bed,

clutching the favorite toy of the day.

She pushes a tendril
of white hair out of her eyes.
They tuck the visiting grandchildren into bed,
go back outside to recoup
from the day,
gently swing
on the strong,
the oak
and the plum tree,
which are, like them,
tied together
They glimpse the North Star twinkling
through the oak's
murmuring leaves,
a lullaby
in the deepening dark.

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