As a mother, you gave me
eyes so I'd see autumn
in a different light,

legs, so I could amble
toward your open arms,

a heart that I could follow
when there was 
no-where left to turn

and a voice, just in time
to learn the meaning of goodbye...

but as an angel,

you'd crimp ribbons
in the evening, place
them in my waiting hands

then improvise a bed-time
story just before I fell asleep:

something about a
blackbird who lost his way
and the robin 

who took him in, then 
loved him like her own.