Melodies, like people, have a home.
Otherwise, they’d wander aimlessly.
They modulate and mutate as they roam,
Having held their own quite painlessly,
Eventually returning to the heart
Reserved for them by nature or by art,
Savoring that long-sought tonic tone.

Maybe time is like a snowdrift. Spring
Opens up its secrets. And perhaps
There you find what you’ve been looking for.
Harsh winters wait, of course, but there are more
Ecstasies than sorrows under wraps,
Retained in drifts till their awakening.

Mind not my contentiousness,
Umbrage quite umbilical:
Mirror of my love.

Mere happiness is not the song I’m singing:
Of mothers’ joy a jagged piece is pain.
To love is to be amply burdened, bringing
Hearts with gifts to an uncharted plain.
Even so, one longs to be a mother,
Remembering a richness unreserved
‘Ere one could barely recognize another,
Sustained by love unsought and undeserved.
Deeper than oneself is one’s communion,
A revelation reached alone by union
Yet yearned for, though through years of love well served

If I could give my mom the world
Or anything she wanted,
I’d give her my own heart and soul
And leave my own heart haunted.
I’d take upon myself her life
With all its strife and pain,
And let her ease into some space
Where she could live again.

The pain for me would not be pain,
At least not for a while;
For I’d be doing it for her,
And I would see her smile.

I wish that I could take her heart
And cleanse it with my tears,
And make her sorrow go away,
And answer all her fears.

I wish, I wish, but then I can’t,
As I watch helplessly,
And take her in my arms and say
I wish that it were me.

But loving is a hard, hard way,
With all the pain it brings.
And yet there is no other way
To touch the heart of things.