Simple Deep Joys

My mother has recently come back home from hospital. As she slowly regains her strength I too regain my lightness of spirit, in simple (or are they?) joys.

A quiet cup of tea

outside on a wooden bench

as birds sing up the sun,

others sleeping,

warm-nested in bed.

A butterfly dancing,

black and orange wings

fluttering fantastically,

unafraid it hovers

and settles on a nearby

bright purple flower.

The tentative form of

my now-skinny mum,

fledgling steps in the kitchen,

she directs the making of lasagne,

my heart bursting with joy

as her hands grasp a dish,


then lift it surely

and place it on a table-

the chef awakening.

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.