Wednesday, May 27, 2015

A Late Mothers Day Post

I love this one because I can see each of my unique babies in the stanzas, accompanied by a happy memory.  The ending is bittersweet, like the significant weight of a baby's body that wears you down in the balancing but the eventual absence makes your arms ache for the burden in the decades that follow.    


The mornings are his,
blue and white
like the tablecloth at breakfast.   
He's happy in the house,
a sweep of the spoon
brings the birds under his chair.   
He sings and the dishes disappear.

Or holding a crayon like a candle,   
he draws a circle.
It is his hundredth dragonfly.
Calling for more paper,
this one is red-winged
and like the others,
he wills it to fly, simply
by the unformed curve of his signature.

Waterwings he calls them,   
the floats I strap to his arms.   
I wear an apron of concern,   
sweep the morning of birds.   
To the water he returns,   
plunging where it's cold,
moving and squealing into sunlight.
The water from here seems flecked with gold.

I watch the circles
his small body makes
fan and ripple,
disperse like an echo
into the sum of water, light and air.   
His imprint on the water
has but a brief lifespan,
the flicker of a dragonfly's delicate wing.

This is sadness, I tell myself,
the morning he chooses to leave his wings behind,   
because he will not remember
that he and beauty were aligned,
skimming across the water, nearly airborne,   
on his first solo flight.
I'll write "how he could not
contain his delight."
At the other end,
in another time frame,
he waits for me—
having already outdistanced this body,
the one that slipped from me like a fish,
floating, free of itself.

-Cathy Song, Frameless Windows, Squares of Light-

1 comment:

Britt said...

You always can pull up the best poems. Are they stored in your brain or do you search them out when needed?