Anna Marie Sewell rips open the morning with this poem. Perhaps we should all tend the garden.
April 17: Nocturne: Tiny Now
She is tiny now, my mother
and jokes in the morning, when
her teeth aren’t in, how she whistles
like a little bird. And i want to reach
back to the nights when
she brought the piglets in
laid them in the woodstove oven
so tiny, but she believed in them
and in that warm cradle, the spark
of life rekindled in them. How
do i cradle her? now
she is so tiny, softly
drawing nearer to
the Western Door.
This poem won’t do it.
This poem is for me
a piglet grown, with
my snout astonished
at discovery, how the power
that built a world for me still
reveals itself, blue
slight, soft, tiny.
My mother went home to God on May the 5th. I was honoured to be with her then, to recite for her the prayers she loved. One day, it will…
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