Awake, but still in bed;
I wear my favorite nightgown—
slippery, pale green, synthetic.
Morning sun streams through
opaque shades, slightly raised
for the breeze; only windows
cool this house without central air.
Crop duster sounds bleed in
from distant potato fields.
Early on these summer mornings
my mother tenderly cares
for her morning glories,
climbing just outside my window;
she is present, but not with us;
she’s alive, but always hoping
for more. Here though,
on these mornings,
spent tending her flowers
she finds a semblance of peace;
perhaps even joy.
Now a mother, it’s reassuring to know
my mom too left dreams unattended,
as we all must do, and this summer
I wake with clenched teeth and pass
my own flower beds, over run with
weeds and whimpering, dried out leaves.
Delayed gratification, they might say,
but still I hope that I might
find ways to nurture my children;
my morning glories.
Amen, Mother, Amen.