To My Mother

There is the drink,
the last drop of everything.


There is moon, by night urging
roots into the ground,
the height of knowing.
By day she passes over,


sometimes invisible
where hopefully then birds
and fruit begin to sing and blossom
In the wild of our hearts


the stars speak loudly
without care or need for care
where others tread.  We
are known because


you have known us,
known the space between
what we love,
and what we do not


Drink,
the last drop of everything