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.