A Place for Everything
my mother’s mind
is slipping through my hands.
As best I can, I pick up
the pieces
and give them back again.
She smiles and puts them
on the table,
or tucks them inside a book.
A place for everything,
she thinks,
and everything in its place.
Later on, a week, a day,
she is surprised
when memories sprout in corners.
It is good to watch them flower,
even when the pictures
on her walls bear strangers’ faces.
May 13, 2006
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