Tuesday, December 15, 2015


The woman/child I named
takes her place in the sway
of black and white.
Her thighs clutch the belly of her cello (3/4 size),
and her hand trembles tight
around a horsehair bow held at concert attention.
Little one, did I ever mention
that I, too, once held a bow?

I pulled it from a post oak.
Stripped it till the bark bled smooth.
Seasoned it with summer.
Cured it in the corner of my room
till I could string it with twine or fishing line;
I had to make do, but you . . .

you, I named for finer things.
Bach instead of barn cats and blue stem.
So pull your bow across the strings -
make them sing.
make them sing

like the flight of an arrow.

For The Tuesday Platform at Real Toads


colleen said...

This gives me goosebumps.

Timoteo said...


Kerry O'Connor said...

Chills! Your sense of timing is superb in this amazingly beautiful poem.

Anonymous said...

Ditto on the goose bumps. This is exquisite poetry. You know, I'm always trying to make up stuff to write poems about. But this is a powerful reminder that there's not much more beautiful than motherhood poetry.

Sylvia K said...

Oh, you are the best, MZ!! Thank you, as always!!

Sherry Blue Sky said...

Oh one of my favourites of yours, my friend. So beautiful, full of love for your daughter, whom you "named for finer things."

Anonymous said...

Incredibly strong and inspiring!

Anonymous said...

For "Bow", you should take a bow.

Outlawyer said...

Ah lovely. Great close. K.

Anonymous said...

Wow.. always a pleasure to read your poems!! This one is fantastic.

Gail said...

The pride the wish for our children to do better...you said it all beautifully.

Marian said...

Oh GAH, this is soooo poignant and real and I just want to hug it.

Fireblossom said...

Don't shortchange barn cats and bluestem.

Anonymous said...

Leaving this world in better shape than we received it, how could not Bach bespoke barn cats? Really fine homage to art's mothering.

Buddah Moskowitz said...

Wow. This leaves me speechless. I wish my parent could write such a thing about me. Love, Mosk