Mama

Leaning on my momma
used to be 
as comforting 
    as slipping 
       into a good story
           (and hers were the best)

like the time 
she took a train
    across Czechoslovakia 
        in 1956—-a wide-eyed 
            young bride boldly 

braving new worlds,
baring her teeth 
     at armed guards
         who dared dump  
            her unmentionables,

changing a tire 
at 12,000 feet—
even the Alps 
didn’t scare mama;

now little mama 
    leans on me,
        her fragility 
            a reckoning of age,

and so we measure 
     this middle
         in the luxury 
             of not rushing.

I see
our new season, 
as one of priceless pause; 
this time demands us 
      to rest 
            in the beauty 
                      of now.

—A draft by Carla Jeanne Picklo Jordan