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My Mother’s Poem

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Going

There is a city in my dreams,

the same city of granite streets and shops,

and high above it, like Mt. Royal or Firenze,

an ancient mountain overlooks, enshadowing.

I must climb up to it, the rough tangles

of wooden undergrowth impeding till I seem

further from the pine timbres the rusty-needled florest floor.

But then there, interminable tree trunks, quiet, dark,

until the clearing and the house

I do not know that it is mine:

untidy, left in a hurry, cabinets open,

closets half empty, dust swept into piles, then kicked aside.

No  one is home, but I must go upstairs

to find the furthest door and scrape it open

to find the smallest room where,

left behind, a small child sits beside a doll house,

moving dolls through their imaginary lives.

She has been waiting long and asks me with her eyes,

“Where did you go?”

What did you do?

Who have you now become?

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Author: biochicklet

Scientist raised by intellectuals on poetry, theater, art, history and music in New York City. Escaped to New Mexico to nature and mysticism. Knowing that the absurdities in this life are what we must laugh at.

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