Somewhere thereís a meadow
Hear the flute playing
Somewhere the grass whistles whispers
There is the old tree
rotten at the center holding
water in its roots
Fairy swimming pools.
Mama, your fingers are summer
flowers, dried Queen Anneís lace, brown,
Mama, the oxygen is a breeze your
breath is the wind,
You stretch out your arms to the
sweet grass and pillows become clouds
grand in the blue sky.
Mama, you breathe in and out you are
the whole world to me.
Itís getting dark, the meadow is
Pale moths begin to seek the night
flowers and each other.
We must leave the meadow.
Stretched beneath the old tree you
Quiet now, no more breathing.
A small animal, paws curled, on your
back, mouth open showing black
Heavy closed eyes, head flung back.