WINTER MOURNING
March mad in February
Ma’s temper heats the window.
A flutter of juncos alight
Plying the bare limbed willow
Like a lyre
Fawn, dove, hare
Sheltered in cedar shade
Frightened still.
Bonded in blarney
She’d weaned me
On clever jive
My conception a farce
Life a fiction.
Let the need to know go
She repeated as if Buddha-wise.
Her demise should illuminate
Every secret, every corner
Every cowering tot
Lit by the pop and flash,
Truth, its triumph at last, though
Revelation offers no resolution.
We are all stories in the end.
