This poem deals with the death of my mother.

Seed, root, tree, a crisp clarity
kissed upon the wind,
and the leaves burn gold and the snow
falls deep and lonely.
I tried to call you, Mama, then realized
I didn't know your new exchange.

I feel a presence, I don't know how
to forget, as I prepare to leave the womb,
a seed destined to grow in the fresh loam
of an ancient knowing.

We are children, still and old,
and coming and going, and present always,
as is the One from whose dream
we woke to say "I am"

Unto the placeless, love-torn shell.
Mother, father, the smiling children
afloat like stars upon the infinite waters.

And the leaves burn gold,
and the snow falls deep and lonely.

2011