For my Mother on my Birthday

I had forgotten about this poem until my sister sent me the most incredible birthday gift -- she had a line from this etched onto a beautiful bracelet. It made me dig through my computer files to find the whole thing. The first half of this poem is a bit private, and heart-breakingly sad, about the death of my uncle Tom, and my mother taking our cousin, Murielle, to live with us. Murielle is a wonder, a delight to all of us who get the unmitigated pleasure of watching her grow up.

But this half of the poem is for my mother.

The Guardian

II). Fall Creek, Ithaca NY

The water rushes under the bridge

crayfish scuttle from underneath the rocks

they learn to play

again

each teaching the other

this is what it means to be a child

twice by plan, thrice by divine intervention

            I watched you, when I was with God

open the blinds and make the coffee

raise two girls

            until you could raise me

one generation to the next

one generation to the next

alert even at night

when all the children are sleeping

safe in the peach colored house on the corner

where the lilies bloom and tuck themselves away

and the back porch cradles the echoes of a family

who are soaked into the pores of the wood.

I left my tears on the shingles of the roof

under the stars by the window

where she stretches, and kicks in her sleep.

I whisper from here,

to the guardian

when the Victorian house is creaking and settling at night

when everything is less bearable

            you carry us all on your slender spine

            your magic still lingers in the lining of our bellies

in the width of our hearts

you taught us to open

one for the other

and so we are

just a circle of you

stretching through the distance

ageless through the ages

a memory stamped into the earth

we will whisper

we were here

we were loved

and you birthed us all

the ancient mystic roots itself through you

the mother

the guardian

the woman who sometimes forgets she teaches us all

in how to believe.