The Mother

You tell me that you’re happy And that I’ll be happier, Grinning at my grief. The day is dwindling down, For love I have to brace.

Yet am I free to cast Hands to life and gather land, To my familiar sentence Of wooly twins and farmer’s glee.

I think of all those ways That nature crafts with mirror glasses, The long-gone roots that swoon, Among the forest pieces.

• Gwendolyn Brooks