My mother was a mountain immovable
and you'd better watch out
she was a playful sea to paddle in
come Summer's sun
she was a wheat plain to the horizon
a golden Demeter ripe for us
she was a waterfall of falling hair
for us to nestle in
she was a garden wild with flowers
a landscape to grow in.
When she died
there was only sand a million years dry
to run my bone-dry hands through
and no oasis in sight.