My Mother Died and I Dreamed of Children

My mother died and I dreamed of children

tangled in the roots of an upended tree

at the end of the stone drive at the old homestead

near the intersection of a too-busy road.

She was fair skinned and dark haired

and caught beneath the tent made by an uprooted maple

that surely was near one hundred years old.

She wasn’t crying but she was lost

and maybe only I could find her.

It was dark under there, roots and limbs

akimbo and askew. But I found her.

I gathered her up like raspberries in a basket,

like lilacs in the hand, and held her,

finally, like just-kneaded dough.

My mother died and I dreamed of children

lying tiny and still on my lap, looking up at me

with Mother’s deep eyes, all self-judgment

and wonder. But peaceful for once.

She was dark haired and fair skinned

and she was small like a gem in the sand,

like the perfect button in the notions jar,

and for once, she was mine.