I woke up in the room my mother slept in,
When she was alive, in the house my grandparents
Built, when they were alive, to a mockingbird’s
Full-throated dawn’s boisterousness, feeling old, yet,
Younger than they. I went out to the patio to greet
The mockingbird and his morning, the retirement
Community and its death, and the timeless Santa Rita
Mountains, alone with my thoughts and memories.
The mockingbird didn’t mind, actually seemed pleased
With itself for awakening me, which made me smile,
Partly with painful pleasure, partly with wry envy. So,
I decided to sing my own morning song, with words,

Mocking myself.

Erin Elizabeth Kelly-Moen
© Copyright 2/28/09