Dear mother <br />of my mother's mother, <br />where are you now? <br />Where is that great house <br />you stand in front of <br />in this pale brown photograph? <br /> <br />The clearest thing I see <br />is not you... <br />It is a black water pump: <br />its hard metal drew forth <br />the heavy water you used <br />to cook and clean everyday. <br /> <br />A warm wind laps your body <br />and lifts the long white skirt's hem <br />just inches above the ground. <br />It reveals more of yourself <br />than you ever revealed <br />to the deep men around you: <br /> <br />a silent father, long gone, <br />a husband who grunts <br />to breakfast, dinner, bed, <br />two sons whose brash voices <br />speak of new years whose threshold <br />you will never see or cross. <br /> <br />The dog rustles next to you. <br />He knows nothing about machines <br />that hold passing moments in rigid poses. <br />But I can hold this time, <br />hold it gently in my hands, <br />and let the gentleness <br /> <br />ease your ghost, <br />still wandering around the house, <br />searching for something, <br />perhaps a brass button in a clogged drawer, <br />or a letter addressed to you but never opened, <br />or a red scarf you only wore on Sunday afternoons.<br /><br />Daniel Brick<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/early-spring-day/
