Sunday, August 4, 2013


The heron stands
motionless, balanced
between one meal and the next.

The swallow turns
and banks, nipping insects.
The dragonfly wings away.

I rock feebly.
They bib me for dinner,
but when did we eat breakfast?

My Mother danced
above hot pots steaming,
my plate and memory full.

Now, I hold neither
hunger nor remembrance.
Strength fails without balance.

                M. Brink © 2013

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