It was my mother’s home, after all
her sway disguised
in soft mist and filtered moonlight,
in the songs of the mockingbird
and the late-summer crickets.

In the wake of an excitable boy
lay cracked mirrors and broken toys.
Late-night cries, for light or just pique
were transformed at her will
from anger to peace, from harshness to grace.

Though the mist’s long been lifted
and the mirror’s still cracked
I know now what I saw
as a cantankerous child
was the reflection of enduring love.