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December Dawn

12/6/2016

This is one type of sonnet, which I wrote a few years ago (when I was entering the autumn of my days, instead of well into it).

December Dawn

By Tess Baumberger

Day grows from quiet within wider calm,
its stealthy bright seeping through my lintel,
and flowing soft upon outside mantel
of trees awak'ning to December dawn.
A mother breeze coaxes the childlike leaves
to settle, reluctant, to wintry sleep
whisp'ring the prayers their fertile souls may keep
beneath the shelter of her lacy eaves.
As I approach the autumn of my days,
so much within clings, sighing, to my limbs.
The gentle warm dispels my hopeless haze
while Spirit breathes its reassuring hymn
that even coldest evenings of the year
conceal a subtle, everlasting fire.

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My Mother Came Home to Me

12/3/2016

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My mother passed away over a year ago, and finally this week some of her things from her home came to mine.

My Mother Came Home to Me

by Tess Baumberger

My parents came home to me
in the deep rich bedroom
my grandparents gave them
when they married -
My dad’s tall dresser
where he kept his candy bars
until he wanted them.
Three pairs of eyes would look at them
on tiptoe until temptation was too great.
He is evident in the cribbage board
he made with his own hands.
It contains the laughter-banter
of the many games we played
right up until the end.

My mother came home to me
in her wide dresser and mirror,
the sleigh bed where ’d sit
as she cleaned out the drawers,
organizing her jewelry box,
untangling necklaces, placing pins.
Wrapping presents on that same bed
to put beneath the tree, thinking of
the delight they’d bring each person.

My grandmother came home with her
in the arch-backed tufted chair
that once sat in her cozy home.
I would sit there curled with a book,
wandering in other worlds.

My mother came home to me
in the swanky swag lamp
and the delicate spindle table,
in hand embroidered runners
and whimsical salt and pepper sets
my sisters remembered but I never saw -
penguins, chicks, beer bottles,
pigs with “I’m salt” and “I’m pepper” on their bellies.

She entered my home in bread pans and cookie cutters,
in glassware and a favorite bowl,
the stand that held the cakes
I would bake for every birthday.

My mother’s heart beats in the ticking of
of the mantle clock I bought for her in high school.
She sings to me in its chiming of the hours.

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December Dawn

My Mother Came Home to Me

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