For Nancy Woods On Her Funeral the Day Before Mother's Day, 1993

For Nancy Woods

On Her Funeral the Day Before Mother's Day, 1993

We flip slowly through these brown pictures of you,

young like me--- even younger,

other children of your family scattered about you

like tumble-down stones of some

mud-mortared chimney

searching across years

for a house to warm.

The friend you bore me

to meet at fourteen and

grow to love in our dorm-rooms at college

points, "This is so-n-so; this is Uncle so-n-so; this is Mom..."

I'm sure I won't remember all the

family names I've heard and linked to faces

this weekend,

but on this day before Mother's Day

I'll remember you who gave birth to two boys,

but raised a ring of children,

piling us--- friends of your labored-for children---

around yourself,

inviting us to listen to your laugh, rusty as a

familiar tin cup beside

the spring of your humor--- your

gentle wisdom.

You have connected us with your voice,

making occasions to call or write,

birthdays and births;

you have lashed a sturdy cord around each one

and pulled it taut to draw us close

and hold us firm,

and still you held, sure as a mother's hands,

when you fell suddenly

and we have come together here, pulled by

the weight of your love.

Look at this monument of love---

these faces gathered around you

more lasting than granite,

your sons, the cornerstones:

We dip the cup here

where your laughter pools deep, and we

remember.