Irony from the Grave
My mother knows
Of the bird who sings
At dusk
Too quietly for most to hear
But the lily listens,
Tilting its petals
To face her ground.
My mother knows
Of the love and kindness,
People who
Gave themselves
To an unreceptive world.
Their efforts were like that
Of a bee
Who stung once.
My mother knows
The sound of the night
Better than she knew me,
While I know the laughter of day
Even when the birds stop
Singing.
Insight doesn’t halt
The moon.
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