By David Hornibrook

She sounds like cobblestone when she sleeps
but wakes early, before the grass the burning
bushes or tiger lilies, only the roots of our
willow are awake at this hour breathing,
stretching in the loamy darkness.
And the skunk in the garden,
how quietly it paws the moist soil
grazing for crickets. The light
in the kitchen is dim. She pours
coffee into her favorite mug
and settles into her deep green
armchair with her Bible the color
of oak leaves worn by sunlight. The silence
in the air profuse, crowding
the den with its snug molecules thick as heat.
On an august morning in Michigan
my mother adjusts her large
glasses and reads. She reads as though
the small print were clusters of tiny
criminals she must keep from escaping
into the bright new world.

Copyright Hornibrook 2012