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My Mothers Mornings

by David Daniel


I give these mornings back to us . . .
fog swirls over the pond, a skein of blackbirds,
a half-acre of iris blooming like stars.

In our garden you stoop to gather rosehips
and teeter on your heels—a strange, dangling
elegy your mother taught you, as too
the wind blows silent bells of white petunias.

I give these mornings back as if we’d shared them,
as if the sun glares on your tan, thatched hat,
the pecan’s warblers warbling. And I give them
in the bee-drunk syllables of regret or
sorrow which make so little sense but press us
like the lips of our forgotten God.
Take. We can live this way.


David Daniel’s chapbook, The Quick and the Dead, is available from Haw River Books. He teaches literature at Emerson College, where he is also Poetry Editor of Ploughshares. (1994)

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