Mary, you are the bird inside the hand
of St. Francis in the garden where he stands.
Handwriting, a birth mark, and a quilt,
mother to my mother and to me. And to me.
Mary, you are the mason jars in spring,
the kitchen with the view across a hill.
First memory is a Bible verse in song,
the organ while my family sings along. We sing along.
And on the calendar when I leave
a little note for you, so you see
when I'm gone, I never go too far.
Your heart is my heart,
your blood, my blood.
When I'm gone, I never get too far.
Mother to my mother and to me.
