...written as though by Mr. Sark...
My mother reminds
me of snug time
in cold snow where I
was birthed, and you,
who wears her memory
like a scarf I did not
bid you buy,
a scent I never
thought to smell again,
a blanket of goodness
I could never understand.
You recall me
to my mother; all angles,
strong, unshattered,
breathing the loam
of burial, like air
fresh, met with passions
unknown, to be feared
in her steadiness.
Disclaimer:This work is not affiliated in any way with the ABC spy series Alias, or, for that matter, Mr. Sark, whose poetry--until such time as he wishes to make it public--remains unsung, unfeted, and largely unknown.
by: Neftzer 2003 (c)
Feedback Appreciated!
From my website, Mr. Sark Writes Loves Poetry royaltoby.com / alias / sark.html