Friday, January 24, 2014



The desk belonged to my mother
I love the hidden compartments
where she kept importance.

I have kept them too.

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.

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