porch swing

I see my mother.
But only in puzzle pieces:
the cotton blue shirt with its threebrown-eyed buttons,
a barrette or stiff loafers worn to softness.
Within this interlude,
she swings alone
offering her weary arms and legs
a rest, liberated from
handicap's titanium
so that she
is now gliding on the breeze
the slow "c are I t c hhh- c are I t c hhhh"
of the glider's squeak
creating a rhythm to her anecdotes
and song.
She created that rhythm two-fold
one for each of us, a soundtrack from adolescence
to adulthood
just as she perfected it
summers and springs before.
With each day that passed we
became the only trophies
she longed to win.
And as I recall her countenance
behind my reverant eyes
and her song fighting for its
freedom in my closed mouth,
she is re-incarnated as
the bulb's annual blossom
or the ceaseless chant of the locust.
I search my face and yours,
for those things misplaced
and forgotten.
Sure as days that passed on the calendar
and as real as the idleness in my cupped hands,
as cumbersome as the basin in my soul,
I know.
There are ten lifetime's ways to live and love within each of us.