By

Carolyn Mayer

In the wax and wane of our conversations

we would sometimes misunderstand each other’s words  or misunderstand

each other’s thoughts     or she did not hear the words.

On Wednesdays, we shared our noon teas and secret conversations

just my mother and I        soaking in the numinous intimacy of a new day.

Sometimes, there was an impasse,

our paths too wide     and the pureness of our words

vanquished into clouded obscurity      and all form would evaporate

and dissolve.    Yet, our secrets remained sacred.

And from the oversized windows        I could see the hills and sky     around me

and see it reflect through me          and could reflect on it with surety;

and the sunset would feed  me  with its tendril fingers of pink and red

and its colors could hear every word       and every thought     I said;

and the whistle of the season’s leaves

knew the changing nature of my skin and eyes.

Then, there was an impasse,

when my mother gathered into her last silence        into the pureness

of the hills and sky,

and the sunsets fed me with her renewed fingers of purple, orange, pink and red;

and her words still stir through the leaves     and walk across my mind     and on my

shoulders and perch into the window of my heart;

wanting to share spring     wanting to share a renewed life     wanting to share  sacred teas

with my mother.