In the small circle of yellow light
cast by her lamp
my mother sat on the worn smooth
wooden chair
rocking my little brother
until sleep came to take him
loose-limbed and dreaming
from the cradle of her arms.
Later, she would fold clothes
she had washed that day
and hung out in the sun,
stacking them, clean and fragrant,
neatly in their drawers.
That was long ago, when evening 
unfolded like a paper rose,
the vestibule of night,
a place to sing and tell stories,
a place for whispering
in the bed I shared 
with my sisters,
a place for surrender
to a measured peace
unthreatened
by the ordinary world.
                        

Once you were new
Like an uncurled leaf
With the dew still on it,
Innocent of thought,
Smooth as a baby, you had
Nothing much to say.
Now you roam the borders
Like an old coyote
You know a lot
About carrion,
And the hard life
Of the scavenger
Who steals the spoils
Of another’s hunt.
Your innocence,
Worn and yellow
As your teeth,
Won't get you
Anywhere now,
But you tell
Much better stories
Than you used to.