Leaf Shadows
i.m. my mother
When I think of you resting
in that sunny sitting room
it is always late afternoon.
Leaf shadows from the garden
are moving on the wall
and on a table near you
stands a pot of white azalea.
Light is spread on the polished floor,
motes hang in the air.
A chink of tea-cups pushed aside
and we fall silent.
That time of many conversations
is long gone. We tried hard
to shed reserve,
you dying, I still hoping
you were not.
Now that I lie in convalescent ease
remote from household noise,
leaf shadows on my wall
bring back the time—
the quiet room, the white flowers,
you so soon to leave us.
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