At day's end she folds her blouse
and places it on a footstool.
She raises her arms to receive her nightie
as it floats around her in faded flowers,
blue and yellow, the parchment
of leaves falling to earth,
falling into her lap.
She checks the basket on her walker
for her nightly needs.
The art of submission:
walker replacing cane
cane replacing dancing feet
dancing fee replaced by buckled shoes
that ran through the raspberry patch
whose pointed thorns couldn’t catch her.
She grimaces in the mirror
and yanks a comb through her hair
still black at the nape,
in the mirror of her mind
my mother is young.