I never know the year.
Months, maybe. And a numbered day.
But yes, I’m doing better now,
more than when she was still here.

The metal’s cold
and distant hum,
dulcimer, a sonar sense of her
 drifts through to air to me now here
with my lungs
and birds and passing cars,
and that Fourth Dimension vortex sound
though no plane is seen so high.  

Can you hear the song?
A frequency in swim - 
a feeling for – I can’t be wrong,  
that long-off moan of mom.

Oh I know, such a loaded word.
but it’s there, and ghosts
they are not some tasseled bookmarks
slicing decks of Great Big History,
nor just appear in cameras green.

What I mean to say is this…
it is not silent when they go.

Not within the noggin, that’s just family,
but I still hear, just off out there,
as if on some Deific digital delay…
mere further than the rooster is away --
An endless pause,
like she’s stuck on maybe just one word
of her oh so many, many … many …
to which I daily concatenate absurd. 

I know her Spirit.
I am her smile!
Giggle, sure is Mom to me.

But these darkened days –
a centered womb calls to me once more
seems to pull from deep entombed
lonely longing beneath the sea,
and nary a Titanic Cameron
to try to feed strange fish
and try to bring the wreckage up.

I think of her often,
and that is not enough now within this submarine.
There’s a wrong-way Eden up ahead,
a not feeling ever really free.

Any moment now, could be over any hill.
A hum resumes amid the plumes
of color and of Will,
only slightly less marked down
than the one we always get for Free.