After Margaret Wise Brown

Sun in the valley, then

a rushing gray cumulonimbus—

I am not sure which

mother I am.

One mother says to her little bird,

I will become a tree

for you to come home to.

One mother says,

I will become the wind,

and blow you where I want you to go.

This wind mother—terrible!

She sends down the leaves.

They travel great, furious distances,

are impossible to catch.

One mother

catches.

One mother finds. One mother

says, I will walk across the air to you.

One mother is air. One mother

is absence; one mother, fog.          

One mother is a hawk

waiting by the edge of a pond

in the tall grasses—

her talons could ball up morsels of bread—

she watches the ducks,

their green soft heads.

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