Monday in the life of a girl,
Armored in sweater and jeans.
Worrying the bed covers
Into a semblance of smoothness;
           Her face fresh
           with red rumpled streaks:
           "Beauty divine in the light of the sun.
            Oh morning, sweet morning!
            The quiver is singing
            As the arrow makes its run."

Holiday magic in the woods of childhood
Times long gone in the wildlands of youth
      (Coins are jingling in her pocket
                 A penny for your thoughts?
                ...I wish I had some.)
The sleepwalker tiptoes to the sounds of Mozart,
Sending a tremor--Shh! Do you hear that?
They hover like bees in mother's attic.
She plays the old record that sets her to right
In a morning without her tea.

Soft beds and flower smells,
Thick translucent curtains draped across her door,
Though there was only the floor to look upon.
Sunlight on my toes, warm with feeling;
There was no room for kneeling,
But my knees got scraped anyway--just like before.

Red ribbon in a robin's nest,
Up on the tree by the kitchen window.
There is a song in the air,
But the notes are muffled, as from lips
Closed forever, sinking into silence.
Traps of mortality shimmering in the linoleum foil;
Baked lasagna for the guests, how could I forget?
It's a beautiful morning out there, easy to get lost in.

Chairs are stiff and cold,
              (the smiling arc becomes a sad bow
               lonely but unbroken; knuckles, clenched, white
       nails biting into the grain)

       She would insist on breakfast.
Bacon and tomatoes, they smell ripe and right;
Juice -fresh pulp- plump oranges from the garden.
Mother's smile on a sunny day,
"I wish it were raining. I'd rather have chicken soup."

Mother is calling, she's calling for me:
"Beauty divine in the light of the sun;
Good morning, sweet morning,
My darlings, my loves."

The smells fade, and so do the sounds,
But grief lingers in the sad arc of the chair.