Mom

In a black and white photograph my mother leans back into a chair
Presiding over pinochle like an empress.
Everyone wants to be her partner.
She plays boldly since she's not afraid to lose
But she's canny too.
She says, "It's just a dime a hundred, Frank.
For crissake, make your bid."

Anchored in her dark earth our seven lives begin,
Vining upward to her Leo sun.
Then strong enough, we turn away.
She undertands the process.
She says, "Life is just a bowl of cherries,
It's too mysterious,
Don't take it serious."
But we do.

She stays up late, reads the paper, smokes and ponders,
Listens til her husband, sons and daughters, dog and backyard garden
Breathe, rest, dream...and then she sleeps.
She like to sweat, grow flowers, fat tomatoes, cut grass then drink a beer.
She dances when she's happy, a bouncy time step's the most emotion she'll display.
She says one summer night, "I saw myself once, right there,
Outside the kitchen window."
Snuggled together like puppies on the dark lawn we listen
And we wish that we could see ourselves too.

I once thought hers a small and stoic life,
But now I see her life bears down and pushes through us still
expanding into and beyond these 3 chaotic dimensions where she left us.
She shrugged her shoulders and said, "What can you do?"
Became quiet for a season, and she died.

Diana Cobos.