the Good Mother

Marion Post Wolcott

There had been placid times when the good mother gave me trust.

Faith held together with duct tape and the watered down glue of stability.

The stroke of my cheek while facing the end of times were infrequent and often malignant.

I often wonder had the sterile touch of veiled angels been too much.

Too much to transfix my childish mind to what was kind.

Had I ever truly had a mother.

A mother to curl into with my twisted body and troubled mind.

With purity dug in deep into blood and tears,had she wanted, needed, another.

A Door Within…A Door

As vast as it seemed, it had only been a dream.

Murky and vague, I awoke and had become…

everything my mother had hoped I would be.

The joy in her eyes had been a prosthetic.

The sins she had always shared…

were no longer kinetic.abandone 1

Slowly fading from sight…

Her wish.

Our dream.

Freedom from our bondage, once again, turned pathetic.

Before this delusion slithered from my specter.

I caressed sleep from my eyes.

And, awareness back to a falling figure, fetal on the floor.

With less came more.

Disappointment lay beside me…

as it had, a thousand times before.

My awakening had been just a dream within a dream.

A door within a door.

 

 

 

Francis and the Garden

With the watering, came the changing, scattering of leaves.

Along the line of vagrancy, came the thoughts.

Mirrored images…of you.

Of course,

it is your time of year.

Those Irish eye’s laughing in the rain.

Not to be overcome.

Memories of you.

Tears like a forest filled with dew.

 

A gold cross with a clasp never to unfurl.

The hushed way you could hum…Amazing Grace.

The innocence always reminded me of silk on lace.

 

And, as it showers in Francis’s garden…

Every thought I cherish.

Neither black.

Nor blue.

Just an… easy reflection of life contrasting with the season’s hues.

amazing 1
And, Grace, my fears relieved
How precious did that grace appear.