Over and over
I call her back to me–
her flowered bathrobe
with pink trim around the collar
glasses a little crooked
hair wispy white.
Scuffing blue terrycloth slippers
she turns toward me,
grasping the counter edge for balance,
and speaks my name
with more love than anyone
ever squeezed into one word.
Over and over
I listen to the sound of my name–
the memory of her, speaking my name.
Dily Morris
