My Mother’s Hair

My mother’s hair

is silk-soft,

she breathes

a deer breath

and surrenders

to my hands.

Long ago

she washed me,

her sure fingers

combing through

my hair.

Now I pray

her wounded heart

finds solace

in my touch.

She tires quickly

and I wrap her warm.

Her dark eyes

thank me,

she is too tired

for words,

but it is I

who is grateful

to feel my mom’s

silk-soft wisps

through my fingers,

to thank her

for my life.

The Shape of Love

I do not know
the shape of love
though my life
has fit its form.

Not in a human shape
reflecting two faces –
a newborn.

Nor in a ring,
a golden, endless
circle infinite
in its holding.

In the first
yellow daffodils
after the
bones of winter
break

just as the sun hits

the moment of bloom
and the next moment
when their graceful
dancers’ heads
bow and drop

that describes
the shape of it

how we bloom and fall
in an endless, golden
circle.