What dreams must come to Mothers minds
when hand of God shall crack the sky,
and rage away the troubled times
for perfect moments relief,
Fresh weathered air
after tumbled trees and shaken nest.
When children hide and peak in wonderment,
knowing beauty in such natured strength.
The shutters flap and quake
about smacking harshly against the house.
And with a whack,
a clouded broom wipes all away
the greys, replaced by light and breeze
All the while she sleeps.
The storm her mind like R.E.M.
with visions of ages that call upon her depth.
When once that swam took first step
along rocken’d tip of skin,
or muffled crunch of those she loved striving to survive
while she entwined in cold lament.
Perhaps, she visions like we –
of happy days or strange desires.
Perhaps, she dreams of elemental fires.
Like flesh and blood
to mount and mud.
Dreams do come to our dearest Mom.
After streak of sky and turbulence,
a peaceful time,