an Ars Poetica

an Ars Poetica

Mother says unless you have something nice to say …

she struggles now to finish

to say anything at all.

Mom stopped watching news a long time ago.

Maybe she will watch the weather when there's a storm in the Gulf.

If my sisters push her hard she’ll watch an Antiques Roadshow

and wake smiling when some hidden gem is unearthed

people are happy then.

Dust is wiped away.

What mom didn’t say was that if I had a rock

bleached almost completely white

tumbled smooth by decades of breaking waves

so smooth you can see a glacier’s heart beating inside

and if behind one line of cloud

the sun was setting

and if it was warm,

and if the road was empty,

and if a young crab clasped the culvert grate

and an osprey surveyed the salt marsh from its perch

so that the only noise I hear are pebbles

rocking in the gentle surf and H’s breath.

And if H chose the rock

for a photo she sent her daughter
wishing she were near

what mom didn’t say was

that if I have that rock

I have a poem.