Sunday, November 8, 2009



Mother - your soup hands
all day making

your bread hands all
night undoing

Your morning hands
opening space I could
fly into -
a cloud or a kiss.


Don't try to find me
in the field of childhood.
After dark, the butterfly
will come for me
gliding on the light
of its yellow wings,
gently touching the place
I am lost.


In the dark of heaven
we lay together breathing
pine smells, grass smells.
The easy dark after sunset
like many hands
opening us
showing us where
we belonged.


Oh the village
where I was always busy
as an orange

beyond the sweetness
of bread and twilight

after forgetfulness,
before death.

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