Quiet mourning sunlight sits light upon her bureau,
questing for an anchor,
that could make an unsung hero,
of not so green plantations,
and the books the dust did make,
and of candles,
and ashtrays,
to remove this soliloquy of fake.


She's resting 'fore the morning, mourning only sleepy dreams,
that make the day an afternoon,
and her schedules sullen schemes.
For caught before the dishes,
the dirt,
and grease,
rescinds a magic sulking silhouette,
known meekly as the wind.


Bearing misfortune with the children,
and illness with all the gifts,
through an envelope of photographs,
her wrinkled ring-hand sifts.
Knowing death is not the answer,
nor life behind the lens,
this lonely quiet family stranger,
with mimicry pretends.


She's anxious and believing,
agnostic and afraid:
her simple life of giving--
now leaves the beds unmade.


The songs of sparrow outside
remind a broken heart
that songs sung on the inside
were once the ample start
of melodies and rhyming,
a child,
and a friend:
she sees an empty message
in means that have no end.


So switching all the channels,
forgetting all the dust,
living for a daughter,
once a son,
is now a worthless must.