Mother

We will all become her,
the inevitability of pink
hydrangeas. She is the Ph 
in the soil.
Guiding the growth.


And it will be good,
for we've known her forever,
some split cells, we are always
part of her whole.


A lost longing for the shore,
she is there in the sand,
standing waiting for us
in our ships to come home.


And it will be bad,
the twin soul will cry
out in the dimmed lights,
being this Greek human
we are taught to love
what flaws will kill us.


This duality we 
cannot escape, 
death is no means of parting,
just a wisp of wind
in our rippling of eternity.


Washing our feet
in the bath, we remember
the humid air, the times
we were sick. The 
smell of Vick's heavy in
our drowsiness.


Forever her soft cooing,
her dove-mother speech
lingers, feathers in our hair
we can't wash out. 
Leaves pressed between 
leatherbound volumes.