Winter Solstice, A Poem

My Photograph, taken in 2012

Winter Solstice

Come rest inside with me, my love,

the full moon wanes in the sky above,

The Wheel has turned, the night is long,

The Ancients chant a Solstice song,

Oh moon! Oh stars! Oh darkest night!

Make clear our thoughts, make clear our sight 

Release our hearts, release our minds,

from all that's passed, from all that binds.

Our sorrows dropped on shadow ground,

we'll walk away, not turn around,

We'll leave the past where it belongs,

in Earth's dark soil, to join the songs,

of all who lived and all who died, 

of all who loved and all who cried.

We're not the same, but we come from one,

Let's meet at dawn to greet the sun.

This poem is included in my published poetry collection,

The Brook in the Woods Behind Our Old House

Soon Now

Soon Now

Each morning, 

I poke my head 

out the front door to 

greet my garden

Good morning, I say,

We made it through the night!

You may laugh, but

it's not guaranteed

especially now, as November

nights grow chill, and there's a 

cold film on the morning grass

that reminds me that

Soon, soon, soon now,

I will step outside

to find my loves 

withered by a true frost

and I will reach down and

softly touch their wounded stems,

and thank them for sharing 

the journey, and whisper,

Soon, soon, soon now

we will both be hiding beneath quilts of 

cloth, or earth and snow, resting, and 

slowly, slowly gathering ourselves to bloom again

Are You My Mother

 This poem, about a visit to see my mother in the Alzheimer's Care unit, earned honors for the 2021 Vivian Shipley Award and the Prime 53 Poetry Competition. It's included in my poetry chapbook, The Brook in the Woods Behind Our Old House.

Are You My Mother?

 

They are already in the circle when I come in.

I spot her right off, tucked between two old ladies –

one’s perplexed gaze wandering the room, the other,

lost in another dimension. And Mom, alert, attentive, like

a well-behaved student awaiting the start of class.

 

An aide sidles up to me.

That’s my mother. I say her name.

She won’t know me. I just want to see her.

To watch for a while. Please. Don’t. Say. Anything.

It will upset her. (And me).

 

I sit beside an old nun; she reaches over and takes

my hand. Center stage, a different aide explains

the Plan for the Day. The one I spoke to, not

a moment ago, taps Mom’s shoulder from behind

and points. Loud whisper: That’s your daughter.

 

I cringe. At the words, the confused look on my mother’s

face, the white-hot pain searing my heart. All eyes on me

now – curious, suspicious. In this alternate dimension,

where long ago is the present, and the present is soon forgotten,

daughters are four-feet tall and eight years old.

 

When I was small, Mummy read aloud, Are You My Mother?

In which, the baby bird, fallen from the nest, wanders off,

asking this question of everyone it meets. Now Mom stares

at me intently, brow furrowed. My cheeks burn; pleading eyes ask,

Are you my mother?

 

She flashes a polite, awkward smile, like one you’d give

someone who accidentally bumped you, to show

there are no hard feelings, shakes her head and says,

just like the animals in the story,

I am not your mother.

 

I throw murderous eyes at the aide and force

a smile filled with gritted teeth. My voice piercing

the stillness sounds high and hollow:

Don’t mind her. She’s got it wrong.

Mercifully, someone asks, What’s for lunch?

 

The grace of short memory spans –

they all lose interest in me, and fast.

Shepherd’s Pie, the aide says.

Someone: What’s that?

The aide’s mouth opens, but

 

Mom’s voice is already in the air:

You don’t know what Shepherd’s Pie is?

I choke back a laugh. Now that sounds

like my mother.

Let me tell her!

 

And then, my mother, who does not know

that it’s fall, or that we’ve sold the house, or

that Daddy is just across the way in long-term care,

or that she once sailed down the Nile past

the Valley of the Kings, who does not know

 

that she is the mother of the gray-haired

woman sitting beside the nun, explains,

in a clear and dearly familiar voice,

and in exquisite detail, how to make

a Shepherd’s Pie.