Memory

Memory

My mom was a singer
And a rocker of babies.
She knew what I needed.
A smile from deep
That crinkled her eyes,
Lessons in making bread;
The feel of the dough
Warm, pliant, smelling of rise.

When I had the cat dreams
I’d crawl into bed with her,
That body a safe landscape;
Curves and slopes,
Soft rises and mysterious canyons.
To hide in the wing of her arm
Was a time of warm, of full.

Cold mornings we’d stick
Our feet in the oven of the wood stove.
Forget school and the hard edges
Of buildings and frost.
We’d read and smile sneaky smiles
And rock, living on
Natural time.