She kneeled at the hill’s base, stirred
the new season,
held the scent of cut lawn in her palms.
Sprinklers arched into spring with a confident grace
I have not seen since.
The water flecks swept, lingered
like the stretching arms of a waking woman.
Her arms covered and honest, open to receive
my tangled hair, white pants, grass-stained at the knees.
I am afraid
of this distinct joy, scared to praise.
She smiled with a sensible pleasure
I have not seen since.
Running down that hill I let … I
let the urgent wind bite through my open jacket and T-shirt.
Pay attention, it’s hard to admit:
I offered my body to it.
“Mother and Child” appeared in “Morning Prayer,” Sheep Meadow Press (2005). Eve Grubin teaches at NYU London and is the poet in residence at the London School of Jewish Studies. Her chapbook, “The House of Our First Loving,” was recently published by Rack Press.
