Ode to Sophisticated Mama (edit, new title)

[brynmawr1]

Ode to Sophisticated Mama

Sophisticated Mama come dance with me.
Swing free in the canopy of my jungle arms,
 
let me float away on the ocean of your hips;
didn’t we get lost in the mountain pass?
 
Sophisticated Mama wasn’t this how it was?
Our early years lazy yawning blooms of Spring;
 
lilac, honeysuckle, plump buds of red, red rose.
Then that Summer heat, those thunderstorms,
 
electric peels of light splitting our sky— the only thing
real was the rain on our faces.  Sophisticated Mama
 
didn’t those bright colors of spring and summer,
now, feel like only those two ticks of the clock?
 
I’ll tell you, Sophisticated Mama, some fear the fall
into the long greying, thinking only of fading colors.
 
I’ve been waiting and waiting more to hold you before
the hearth of our smoldering fire, relishing the grey 
 
of evening’s warmth spent against the inevitable chill.
Listen to me Sophisticated Mama, when we fall down
 
the quick slope of winter’s long night, I see us dancing;
two flakes of snow twirling again through the mountain
 
pass, landing on a child’s mitten melting together
under her laughter happy only that it is snowing.

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Sophisticated Mama come dance with me.
Swing free in the ropey jungle of my arms,
 
let me float away on the ocean of your hips;
didn’t we get lost in the mountain pass?
 
Sophisticated Mama wasn’t this how it was?
Those years, lazy yawning blooms of Spring;
 
lilac, honeysuckle, plump buds of red, red rose.
Then that Summer heat, those thunderstorms,
 
electric peels of light that split the sky—
didn’t we get wet and wild! Sophisticated Mama
 
didn’t those bright colors of spring and summer,
now, seem to last only those two ticks of the clock?
 
I’ll tell you, Sophisticated Mama, some fear the fall
into the long greying, thinking only of fading colors.
 
I’ve been waiting and waiting more to hold you before
the hearth of our smoldering fire, relishing the lazy grey 
 
of evening’s warmth spent against winter’s inevitable chill.
I’ll tell you, Sophisticated Mama, when we fall down
 
the long slope of winter’s first night, I hope we dance;
two flakes of snow twirling again through the mountain
 
pass to land upon a child’s mitten, melting together
under her laughter, happy only that it is snowing.