USA

swheel@zianet.com

LAST POEM TO MOTHER

She pointed out the green in the podded pea,
the rust of popcorn cobs, rainbows in the garden hose spray,
French seams and the turn of a collar on a dress.
She squeezed my hand when music moved.

She also scolded the loud voice, stilled my legs
and quelled the body, but color, the perfected turn
of a stitch, music were important,
and she taught that.

Words were a parent's province, though I encroached.

TRILOBITES

I like a long view,
prairies, not cities,
though a dark cranny appeals.
The mystery of another,
and being alone.
The hard yellow seed
the long armed cactus offers,
the urge to grasp its thorns.
The swim of trilobites caught
in granite mud.
The grief of knowledge. The lingering
of those I loved.
The long line of prose.
The short truth of poetry.

POETRY IS GOOD FOR THIS

To sit and look at a February tree,
two birds in it, spring buds,
the privilege to sit and look at a February tree,
two birds, halo of early sun
against the steel blue.
One bird is gone.
Daddy, I am no longer young.
Robins pluck one by one winter's orange berries.

© All Copyright, Sylvia Wheeler.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.