Her hardest hue to hold.
              Robert Frost

The moon is creating
yellow steam tonight
as it rises beyond the trees

pale and round as summer sliced
into squash you coddled
with butter, salt and spatula.

Lady wearing a lemon dress
at the stove, Lady saut�ing
a tender vegetable, I thought

God had abducted my mother
and replaced her with a saint.
Eyes teared and small hands tilled
the softness of food, garden coins

that paid her passage to earth
and allowed me to observe
maternal love. She cherished
my health, a country meal

and the color of moonlight
sizzling in her pan. Evening�s miracle
had arrived but I knew

nothing gold could stay. The candle flame
burned out, the song finch
drooped in his sleep, and darkness fell

to a walnut brush
sweeping back those nomadic strands
                        of your hair.



�2006 by Wendy Howe