
Mother
A mother is yellow,
a sundial.
She is the window
where the soup
is cooking.
In darkness, she calls
from the landing
to bring sleepy eyes
up stairs for storytime.
A kiss with no explanation.
Mother is flour & ginger,
butter & creamy beaters,
knitting in the basket,
pulling you round
to put your cardigan on.
Mother waits in silence
no matter how...