face is clear as the sun,
Her eyes like brown brook water.
Her hands are cool as shadowy moss,
Her voice is low with laughter.
watching the talking trees
and the scud of clouds on the sky,
Knows when to hang our bright clothes out
For the morning wind to dry.
when to plant her garden seeds,
and when to gather apples
and wild blueberries for hot sweet pies
and when to expect dark dapples.
Of mud on
faces and hand, and scratches,
On children's bare brown knees.
My mother's weather vane is her heart
And the lean of her dooryard trees.