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