Patch of Periwinkle


Frocked in lavender finery

and dainty necklace of white,

March winds rustle your many emerald petticoats

as you sit in half shadow

beneath an unadorned maple tree,

dispassionately waiting

for the rest of Spring’s recalcitrant guests to arrive.

On Cassatt’s Breakfast in Bed

What are you thinking of, Mother Dear,

as you clasp your cherubic child before

you and gaze off into the distance

between courses of honeyed tea and buttery toast?

The movements of the moon?

Mathematical proofs?

Mycology and mineralogy?

Or the sweet deliciousness of another few minutes of sleep,

so you can dream you live in a world where

mothers are the engineers of their own mornings?