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My mom ...............

 Passage of Her Song

Brush
~ gentle brush
To leave spun-silk of wiry curls,
braided ribbons and
other fancy things,
hands wove round
a countenance ~ my own
reflected in the glass.
Her own ~ silver now flecked,
porcelain handle etched mosaic
as the delicate fissures of her face and mine

In the shine
I see her soft and rhythmic stroke
perpetuum
a movement . . . I to she
whose composition blends and binds to me

Mother,
in my veins
you wrote a rhyme,
verses penned
in the rush of generations
~ rush of milk
and dew of tarrying kisses,
My lyrics sung
on the notes of toil and pride
pinched from time
and tears, honeyed and bittered

A hush
~ hush
To memorize our modulation
as we sing this final round of two,
this melody entered each on separate measure,

to end upon
my single note,
sustained
and unwavering


jeanne rene 4/05