David

Just as I despair, you appear

taking matters in hand.  I fluster in from Boston but you

have pawned your cap, for even her ice cream

is of a particular flavor and from her list of delicacies.

And there in the kitchen, an artistically strewn clutter

of dishes

the perfect readings lying on the table

by her bedside, all that matters right there

where she is flowing down. 

Yet still, her head nods

as she steps on brambles in dreams, and you pluck blackberries

offering them to her, and roses from fierce thorns

as we draw curtains of delicate German lace.

The world must wait. 

My fear keeps on rising but you

are a master composer, a wielder of notes and you

know how to politely scat with weight on just the right tones,

skimming cream from little stars.

And just as when you compose at piano, your feet

caressing floorboards in alternation with pedals

notes flitting competently across staves –

Just that way, you know how to do this:  how to

orchestrate mother’s rite of passage as she sets off

for another world, her spirit eyes unable to speak a word

but knowing,

Oh, let me rave.

© 2011 Christine Tsen.  All Rights Reserved.