I found this poem in April 2009 in my mother's box, stored in the attic.
I doubt very much it is an original, written by me.
I don't recall writing it and my handwriting seems to indicate I was 10 or 12 years old.
So, if you recognize it and know the author, let me know.


My mother's 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.

My mother, 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.

She knows 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.