Terri Brown-Davidson – Ⅱ
My Mother’s Mind: A Sonnet
“I can’t meditate anymore,” my mother says. “My mind, lizard-like, skitters
and feints when I try to calm it.” I stare at her sere pale face,
slide quietly into her eyes.
It’s dark yet glitters with murk, a landscape littered
with red and gold leaves that float then cling to my bare
cold feet as I wander through the forest of my mother’s silent mind,
its fir trees wafting an intangible needled scent,
its foliage unfurling, climbing,
developing in bursts of gold-dappled light dimmed
to shadows that lengthen, darken, turn black
as the moist loamy earth squeezing up between my toes.
In the landscapes we inhabit, everything cracks,
disintegrates: twig and branch. Ash and bone. Everything goes
dead and rotten inside the mind
except the tiny orange light that flickers there still
after my mother and I are gone.
“I can’t meditate anymore,” my mother says. “My mind, lizard-like, skitters
and feints when I try to calm it.” I stare at her sere pale face,
slide quietly into her eyes.
It’s dark yet glitters with murk, a landscape littered
with red and gold leaves that float then cling to my bare
cold feet as I wander through the forest of my mother’s silent mind,
its fir trees wafting an intangible needled scent,
its foliage unfurling, climbing,
developing in bursts of gold-dappled light dimmed
to shadows that lengthen, darken, turn black
as the moist loamy earth squeezing up between my toes.
In the landscapes we inhabit, everything cracks,
disintegrates: twig and branch. Ash and bone. Everything goes
dead and rotten inside the mind
except the tiny orange light that flickers there still
after my mother and I are gone.