The melody of my mothers love has been the music I hum on hard days.
It is the din, the clamor, the bedlam, the clash.
The boisterous tempo that marks the beat of my soul,
the tune that keeps me bobbing to the surface,
bouncing off black notes.
The consonance I hope my children remember from long nights
spent slumped against my shoulder, the strain of sleeplessness the theme,
the restless poetry, the fusion,
Their warm heavy weight lending rhythm to the pendulum swing;
when the rocking chair was the metronome that kept time.
Until the even measured meter of their breathing slowed enough for me to stand,
And walk still swaying to that remembered tempo, counting the four beats of a whole rest,
The dark night a cave amplifying each sound
Still swaying to
Timelessly towards their room,
the dark silence yawning.
I am my mother’s daughter.
The heavy strain of creation, never stopped my mother from singing,
the burden of history