For Mom
It’s the flitting yucca moths every third season
or updraft from the sea
that smacks your face clean, late night
rub my feet or popped corn
merging you two with hope
kernel, flight, salt, you name it—
maybe its the cheek hug with her who mostly runs
hot, the warm fleshy press
you never prepared to miss
maybe you will see a swan and remember her
pouring coffee or drawing a bath
for you no less
and the only feet which creak the ground are yours
but maybe you wear her socks
or write about the scent of her hair
you happened upon in a pillow,
and ask the growing sky
if she is near?
And the trees
if she is in them?
Rooting in heartwood all you
wouldn’t forget; push your foot through the ground
so the other one flies.