Mother was a gypsy-brown-eyed dreamer;
she cuddled sister and me in the porch glider--
pushing, lifting, pulling, after dinner 
before bath and prayers;
our shoulders hugged; she whispered in our ears, 
One day we will travel where dancers 
	shake tambourines 
	in carved incense filled marble rooms.
She twirled, singing of rivers, mountains, 
highways she had never seen.
	We will pull a silver trailer to painted deserts, 
	canyons, waterfalls, 
	trees that long ago turned to stone.

Mother was a brown-haired-flapper dreamer,
a potent mix of powder and perfume
when she swayed and we stared-- 
until dark seduced day.  
We rocked--planning 
to be free of small town claws.
Moon and stars slipped tidily into our world.
I will never close the shades.

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