Doodles

  

The desk belonged to my mother

I love the hidden compartments

where she kept importance.

I have kept them too.

Doodles, 

pencilled with abandon,

curled and draped,

 a face

a smile graced.

I see in pen

a girl with a big bow

and hair that flips up.

There’s a wooden boat,

and above it a chandelier

with bangles and crystal, 

where a winged critter

circles in circles.

Given a motor

all could fly,

little paper machines around the room,

or away on graceful silver thread of wing.

I know while she doodled

she talked on the telephone,

said how are you,

made appointments,

laughed in friendship,

all the while her crazy self-willed hand

moved unfettered and free.

I see she has named one,

horse and buggy,

but it looks more like a flower

with light bulb petals.

I fear I got my imagination from

that sweet mother of mine.

No, I hope I did.