Mother

She keeps magic in her pockets
tied to the strings of red woolen mittens
and hidden deep in tiny shells -
polished like sea glass
the soft burr of color closing over her eyes
as she gazes out at the dawn
creeping coral and rose over the garden gate
while the curl of fragrant tea steeps the morning into something ripe.
She is a trickster and spins gold
out of your bad dreams
and secrets she keeps for you
hidden in a garden that only blooms at midnight
where she tells you stories of dragons
and feeds you oranges and chocolate
laid out on lace, and china plates
collected from sandmen and angels
who got caught in the rain and lost their way
coming home from the stars.
She gathers your wishes in her apron
and stores them in a cedar chest -
wood fragrant from smoke and rain
the heady scent of lingering autumn -
worn in the soft hollow over her heart,
knowing their worth is more than kingdoms
or legends invented by princes and seers,
tracing your childhood on their fragile edges.