Mother Thoughts
She’s wrapped the quilt, red
and white, about her
shoulders and around
the baby too. Snug
in their nest, her mind’s adrift—
forgotten her book,
the painter, his brush.
Forgotten the flowers and
the little hands that
collected them from
the garden this morning and
put them in the vase.
Forgotten… voices
calling, unheard, from outside
from their rowdy games.
Forgotten, mostly,
except for a momentary
gulp or snuffle or
wiggle, the baby
who is drinking quietly
now that the milk has
stopped gushing full force.
Forgotten the pattern of
the textiles her mind
has been busily
weaving. Forgotten the quilt
whose bold pattern danced
and the table’s lines.
Forgotten her new black dress
and the filtered light.
If she tried to paint
the place her wandering thoughts go,
she would lose both shape
and color. If then
she tried to find the right words,
all would melt away.
This interior
landscape is soap bubble thin—
just thick enough to
wrap a mother in.
