mother’s day

sleeping in

breakfast delivered

by mars and apollo to my bed

i am

sprawled divinely

woven silk skin upon linens with a thread count

proportionate to the amount

of life

asleep and otherwise

one spends in a bed

this day a queen’s throne within

a generational bed chamber

this room was my grandmother’s

i remember her singing a lullaby

to me here

my eyes consider the

tiny picture of my parents when they were

in love

on the dressing table

i came from there

the bureau stands

noble in the corner

wreaths of dried flowers hang above

the cherry wooden antique gift when i was ten

still a centerpiece at 33

early american

atop it presides a sweet pea candle in stained glass

a buddha statue

and two amethyst bookends whose loving hands

hold

salinger kafka neruda eliot pound yeats diaz

in the middle of the lifesize diorama

a jewelry box

of the highest order

within it exists a water mirror

an ocean view window into

another time

a favorite thing

cherished always

the holly tree

crone

stands tall

waving in through

the flowing sage curtains

foxfire sunlight reflecting

glowing smile

lazing

happily

on a

sunday

morning