Mother
She lives in the bay leaf tree outside her kitchen door,
in the greenhouse of orchids that bloom so eagerly.
She reaches out from the clear Consol glass jars filled with homemade orange preserve and tomato jam.
She flows in the water cascading from the pond beside the ostrich nursery, down to the dam that sustains the ducks and swans and the occasional rock python too.
She still shoots a glance of disdain at the crows that eat the eggs and the chicks that she tends to with care.
She grows in the fever tree overlooking the dam, green barked branches reaching for the heavens.
She holds a seat around the table, silently watching the gathering of her son and daughters.
She resides with care and heaviness and sadness in the eyes of her son.
She is in the movement of her daughter’s fingers that automatically go to call her when she aches.
She is in all the places that have no regard for birth and death but merely acknowledge a touch.
She lies not only in memories but in the way she touches still.
