Mother

Mother is dying of dementia, her memory gone
long before her body, my body created
of seed and egg and dust, borne and
birthed by hers, nourished by her milk, by
carrots and apples and nuts grown
in the soil of her knowing, the stories
too, she fed me, of magic and courage,
of gods within us, how we could see
forever from the mountaintop, find
tiny minnows in the shallows, cherish
the cattle, the fowl, the creeping things she nourishes,
her kindness as wide as the
grand expanse of flowered field,
even when she storms and sobs, when
she begins to break, forgetting patterns,
beloved faces, though she groans with the
effort and becomes mine to care for, my turn
to nourish, enliven and thank