Rock-a-Bye
Not even a smother-mother
holds on to her children
tighter than do these trees,
buttoning each to each twiggy
finger so they’ll feel safe
flipping and flying about—
acrobats in a delirium of green.
I stand at my window
watching the May winds
have their way with these
rooted mothers giving in
to being bullied and tossed,
pantomiming the great
drama of grief and keening
to indulge their progeny, tender
with infancy, their first ride.
We live in a sea of air—
breath moving on the waters
animating all things. See how
the wind lifts the limbs
to reenact the ocean’s heave
and swell. How new leaves
flutter about the crowns
like giggles of foam, and all
is up and down, gallop and glide,
carousel horsie and whee.
Then my daughter calls.
My own long-stemmed Lilly—
grown from the heart’s bulb
and nurtured behind the briars
of vigilance—to say she’s found
a lump. What an ugly word
to take over this poem. To squat
on its one-syllable immensity
and not move.
