Philadelphia

A SONNET 

Mother, of course, it begins with Mother;  

I was the first-born there;  

Intertwined, intermingled, our tree, hazy,  

Difficult to bear, faced a window—  

“Winda,” Grandma said, she was the other;  

She had alters, alternates frowning,  

Smiling at me. The way she said, “Winda,”  

Tickled me.  And from her winda fell a glow  

  

That washed over us; but, her mind was a maze,  

And, we couldn’t figure her out;  

She was a cold, porcelain doll,  

Or a figure of wax melting—a crescendo  

  

Of her longing. And, the simple counter  

Of her innocence in the window, always. 

✴✴✴