who’ll do great things if only
morning sun could gift your face
such precision of grace you demand of self
it often smacks of selfishness, each hair in place
every turn of phrase mulled over
like worried wine, all movement perfected
in mind before execution, or just abandoned
are you guided by some hungry angel who’s
ever-ready to devour impulses? (I heard a man
say: “You don’t have to resolve all your issues,
by the time you do, you’ll have three days left!”
I think he was a Buddhist, or perhaps embraced the Tao)
so what’s a mother to do, impatient
as I am to push you from the nest and
watch you soar as sun falls behind trees
another day diminished, I count your score
(is this your test or mine? what folly I serve up)
while you—steel strong demeanor laminated to tenderness,
claws gripping that last twig, a brand new eagle with
wings in want of flapping—resolute yet gentle soul
let love spill all around you, let your heart keep
time to its own rap rhythm, thumping message
through soles of your feet into the street,
your path, your way—
and I’ll watch in wonder, heart-knowing that
great things wait for you.
Even though mountain ranges, seemingly endless fields of corn and soy, and even time sets us apart, when I read your words I can see you as clear as summer’s wind; the voice in my head isn’t mine – I can hear you reading to me. I feel your presence in these words and I swear I can even sometimes smell you. I am so grateful and thankful for you, Mama. I love you!