My Mother's Mysticism

4/07 - this is the poem I've been looking for. This is the poem that inspired the title of my blog, and I have no idea why I never put it here. It took me a while to find it. It was written on the same plane flight, home from a Pittsburgh conference.

We're still in the clouds, mother,
and I think of you every time I
pray to God for his existence,
or feel the wind, or meta-wind -
something more than wind -
wrap itself around my hair
or hold my hand as I walk these streets alone.
You taught me these ideals;
these arms, like rocks,
you worked milk-smooth with the
love and tenderness
I try to reflect in my eyes as you did yours.

I was raised by a woman,
and some say it shows,
though you were no Amazon, and your
brown eyes were framed with a short stature,
rounded face I will never forget as it
hovered over my school-age,
tired eyes, like an angel in a dark green nightgown -
"Sprout," we used to call you,
when we were tall enough to see over your head.

But the rock on which you built me shines now
like translucent glass and streaming flowing waters,
and I want to look out of the window
into the clouds outside my plane
and let your face see mine completely,
so you could know your mysticism
lives on still, inside these liquid,
living bones.