(Villanelle)
Mother would wake me with her words of ‘rise and shine.’
Serve breakfast porridge and enduring love to sing
‘Oh! What a beautiful morning’ song she called mine.
She would cradle me in Brahma’s lullaby divine.
Her calm arms lulled me in light only she could bring.
Mother would wake me with her words of ‘rise and shine’.
She chased big-boo ghosts with wooden spoons to recline
me to sleep, then rouse me so we’d sing to and swing
‘Oh! what a beautiful morning’ song she called mine.
She merged me in morn’s dewed dawn of glory design
Where an embroidered cat sat with apron’s heartstrings.
Mother would wake me with her words of ‘rise and shine.’
She read a dead-doll poem that fell from cloud nine.
Yet I her swaddled doll as she would ting-a-ling
‘Oh what a beautiful morning’ song she called mine.
She was my guiding angel and also my shrine.
Most mornings I hear her footsteps echo and ring.
Mother would wake me with her words of rise and shine
‘Oh! What a beautiful morning’ song she called mine.