I step in a taxi, again. It takes me there fast,
cutting the white dotted lines of highway
into miles of silence. Back to my mother
in the ship or the plane, reversing my steps
to see her curving herself into her pillows
her red walls, her eyes not seeing me but a blur.
My mother calls to me from her place far away
in deep mind, where she has built a tower of knowing.
From her far tower, she can see the white gardens –
her Vita Sackville-West, the lighthouse, waves,
still far away enough for her
to remain in greenness, to inhabit
the green light of Pre-Raphaelites.
She can read the mind of clouds.