in the haze of hot August mornings
in those early years
my mother always woke up first
and left the green-gabled cottage
rich with the scent and sounds
of the metal percolator making the coffee
and a bit of raw bacon fat put aside
for me to take down to the rock
to still-fish with (though it never worked)
when I arose

before six in the morning
she gently closed the screen door
and sneaked down the dirt road
to the beach to skinny-dip

the warblers and the chipmunks
whispers of August breeze
docked boats rocking against shore
serenaded their welcome, as she dropped
her rose-flowered cover-up
onto the sand, and mounted the floating raft
to dive into the river

dipping, rolling, lolling
her own smooth curves and inlets
under the silken sheets
of dawn water
before the beach came to human life
with the clatter of children and pails
neighboring holidayers and boating parties

in the later years
my mother didn’t like the swimming
the weeds grown rampant in the river water
and hungry
to wrap around her legs

in the later years
plagued with back troubles
she couldn't tolerate
the over-soft mattress there
and gave up coming with us
to the rented summer cottage

but in those early years
my mother always woke up first
every sun-gold morning
to revel in dawn water

03/21/2004