The thin soprano
of Grandma’s voice
singing ‘Ar hyd y nos.’

Stepping out of my car
to the fragrance of pines.
Welcome back to Chase Lake. 

Candle-lit church, multi-colored
robed choirs singing into
the early dark of Advent.

Shuffling through fallen
leaves, kicking the smell
of autumn into crisp air. 

My mother’s stories
the ones that were true
the ones that weren’t. 

Floating in the pool
wine and idle talk
as sun sets, moon rises. 

Long nights in hospital rooms
dozing in upright chairs
my mother speaking in tongues. 

Waking to silence, knowing
that winter’s first snow
has stopped the world.