Speaking gently every morning,
smoothing out my sleep-warm back,
my mother came and woke me up
with simple words and songs in scraps;
jolting, cutting through the dawning,
now alarm rings me awake,
in contrast to my gentle rise
when I was rising in her wake.
Stirring, natural, some soft morning
past my lonesome teenage-scape,
I long to be again a child
and wish she could soothe me awake,
but mother cannot gently wake me
as she used to way-back-when;
I drive myself to work and school,
and even Eden, now and then.
