The Poetry Of..
Sarah Zang............................................................
Her Mother's Jewelry Box
The hinged lid, gilded with fluted edge,
a red velvet lining remembers traces
of its early flame. The mirror, aged
and wise still does not lie, Her mother's face
is reflected in her smile.
An amethyst, an opal, a few pieces of gold,
solid, old, enduring, A strand of pearls,
demure as if brand new, Three baby bracelets,
the kind hospitals used to give, each with a name
embossed on beads of pink and white.
And so the ancient box reveals
the history of a wife who failed
and no matter all the good she'd done
He worked his farm
without a son.
Looking at Mountains through Midnight Mist
Vague mist lends mystery to tall mountains
that stand as they have stood since time began,
Encased in darkness of this midnight room,
I travel through the ages in my mind.
The cradle where I slept, and my babe, too,
stands empty now upon an unlit hearth,
My mother's face seen sweet in lullaby,
Then a vision of my son as voice changed
from hymn to my rendition of sleep's song,
With gentle tones, the sound of love the same.
Empty cradle, the mist swirls 'round your frame
until you focus clearly in my mind.
Through birth and death, all stages in between,
like ancient mountains in sunshine and storm,
the bond between a mother and her babe
stands tall through all the shifts of passing time.
crepuscular
scaling Denali
daily
peaked
the air is thin
the basket returns
empty
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