Daily poem - october 21, 2009 A Revision...

The Artist’s Means

She was my mother.
That meant she thought she understood.

It was a long time ago and she is dead.
And her life’s become

As luminous as hydrangeas in October.
Blue or blushing— chromed with early frost,

And ready for the weight of snow,
closer to the earth.

A lash slipped beneath my eyelid.
Ruff of torn grass

the wild turkeys scratch
for grubs—

Perhaps a princess seam
where the shoulder meets the sleeve.