Right through Christmas to New Year
I load up with fleeting Christmas cheer,
see the new year roll in upon a  tide of fog.:
Regret never falls into line, sadnesses rear
their ugly heads in dreams and waking too. 
The washing line of time swings into view
of all the old routines, wrung through the wringer
of times gone by: my mother's red hands 
on washing day, helping her turn the mangle,
recalling silences engendered by little money
& no time to fix and mend the broken shards
of times gone by. My mother's face is carved
into the tattered lineaments of my pulsing brain.
her dark hair threaded with silver remains the same.

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