Mother Tree by Phyllis Cole-Dai
Move inward from my
bark to my heartwood.
Count my rings as you
go, the record of my
years, the chronicle of
my seasons: sunshine
and shade, heat and
cold, drought and rain,
fire that scarred me,
lightning that split me
open, insects that
stripped me bare. The
bending to stay upright.
The sickness and ache.
And the bouncing back.
The impossible revival.
The bands of light and
dark. Some thin. Some
thick. Some right. Some
wrong. Loved, it all
belongs. The rings you
find in me you will find
in other mothers. We
root our feet in the
same land. We lift our
arms toward the same
sky. Don't think we're
separate because we
stand apart. And don't
think our rings reveal all
we are. We never stop
growing, even after we
fall
The Raincoat by Ada Limón
When the doctor suggested surgery
and a brace for all my youngest years,
my parents scrambled to take me
to massage therapy, deep tissue work,
osteopathy, and soon my crooked spine
unspooled a bit, I could breathe again,
and move more in a body unclouded
by pain. My mom would tell me to sing
songs to her the whole forty-five minute
drive to Middle Two Rock Road and forty-
five minutes back from physical therapy.
She’d say, even my voice sounded unfettered
by my spine afterward. So I sang and sang,
because I thought she liked it. I never
asked her what she gave up to drive me,
or how her day was before this chore. Today,
at her age, I was driving myself home from yet
another spine appointment, singing along
to some maudlin but solid song on the radio,
and I saw a mom take her raincoat off
and give it to her young daughter when
a storm took over the afternoon. My god,
I thought, my whole life I’ve been under her
raincoat thinking it was somehow a marvel
that I never got wet.
Shoreline by Gerard Coughlan
I can’t halt the ebbtide of your decline
But I can stroll across
A broad beach of memories,
Paddle indulgently
In the rock-pools
Of childhood.
Chase the wind-possessed tablecloth
Of numerous picnics
And gaze,
Dreamily,
Across the shifting sands
Of adolescence.
All of these Sun-days
You gave to me
And
As I sing to you now,
Trying to inspire a mouthed chorus or two,
I think of the mermaids’ song
Carrying
From far out at sea;
Its melody
Falling just short
Of where I strain to listen.
The Cardinal Reminds Me by Andrea Potos
It sweeps and arcs across my path
almost every day on my walk to the cafe,
under sun or cloud, its red
seeming lit from inside, a brightness
bold as the lipstick my mother wore
no matter the day or the time,
no matter how close to the end
she got, even two days before the last,
the young dark-haired nurse applying it
for her while I sat nearby, my own
lips trembling, from fear or hope
I could not tell, I could not separate anything,
and can’t now either — the bright flame of this bird
recalling me to loss, or to joy.
Depression Glass by Ted Kooser
It seemed those rose-pink dishes
she kept for special company
were always cold, brought down
from the shelf in jingling stacks,
the plates like the panes of ice
she broke from the water bucket
winter mornings, the flaring cups
like tulips that opened too early
and got bitten by frost. They chilled
the coffee no matter how quickly
you drank, while a heavy
everyday mug would have kept
a splash hot for the better
part of a conversation. It was hard
to hold up your end of the gossip
with your coffee cold, but it was
a special occasion, just the same,
to sit at her kitchen table
and sip the bitter percolation
of the past week’s rumors from cups
it had taken a year to collect
at the grocery, with one piece free
for each five pounds of flour.
What a delightful surprise, finding my poetry here, and in such fine company! Thank you for sharing my work, Stephanie!