-- to my mother--
Her house is a bright, open, forest glade
Unkempt, Holy, and good and wild and free
Where creatures of the woods can go to graze
And a travel-worn man can go to breathe.
There her voice bubbles in brooks, sings in streams
And it laughs like a liquid in the air.
Her cupboards are tree-limbs, leaves always green,
With magic fruit to erase any care.
Her eyes twinkle both sun and stars through leaves
While the weary find rest beneath their light
She moves with rustling of ten thousand leaves
Her presence halts evil out in the night
Though through deserts I walk and swamps I wade
I am still sustained by thoughts of that glade.
May 12, 2001
Benjamin J. Cline
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