(Poem by Wendy Howe )

Each morning
she braids her long hair
and lays its against her back , a vine
yielding light as it unfolds
and flowers salt-white.

Each morning she lifts her son
and locks him in arms that have felt
strains of a small boat
docking in the piano's heart

whenever her husband played Debussy.
He understood how the composer
drafted music, a boat drifting
and lodging the dream of its listener --
his wife. She gathered roses

and notes rippling through her hair
as dawn prompted the garden
to hone its poignant scent
and the bridegroom to practice
his musical skill. Quietly,

she imagined a mother's hand
tilting the bassinet, sliding it
toward the window
and the whimsical nod of trees
that amused her son
each day when hours spelled out
the fair silence of morning.

© 2011, Wendy Howe. E-mail.
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