Amber
by Erin Rodoni
Poured over still in light but harder–the cottage,
where my mother rocked me, while sunslant
honeyed through the fog, a glacier of gold enclosing
dandelion and sap-spangled cypress, saffron
threaded into risotto, chanterelles sauteed
with butter and sage. My mother’s body younger
than mine is now, my own she holds
in the locket of memory, remembering
for me what I cannot know of those afternoons
that passed so slow and much too fast.
Ginger steeping in a copper kettle
on a wood burning stove, the porch lamp
calling my father home and the swaying
of headlights on the bay’s far shore, distant
as ships off the coast. Our first year
bathed in bruising glow–not firebright
but lantern-low. Resin of heartwood
and scar, healer of the once majestic
coniferous forests. Colostrum of giants,
creator’s sweat and tears. Embalmer
of what was and is no longer. Both lore
and core of history when it curls at the throat
and sleeps. I keepsake my own tree-wept jewels
from motherhood’s infant year, the shine
of my first-born’s face up at mine. I weep now
this still from my mind, so I can show her,
so she can see herself as I saw her–precious
gem distilled from time, descendant of stars
and pollen exhaled by Mesozoic meadows–
oh Honey, a new era slides over us
so smoothly. See how the light stays
warm, even as it petrifies.
ÃÛÌÒÓ°Ïñ the Author