Marginal Mother

I met her in mind,
this mother, but only
in margins. For years
we missed windows
of communication, chasing--
it seemed--a commonality
denied each other.
This is our history,
writ here in whatever space
may be. So it was,
and so note it be.
She imagined me as
intellectual, instinctual,
indelibly inscribed on leaves,
and surprised me
by humming along to
that illusive song. I read
her again, imagining her turning
pages, unfolding readings
and meanings, finding echoes
between poets, people, herself
and me. We missed each
other terribly, but met finally
in pages, pressed together like
petals, elucidated in elliptical fragments,
half-notes of melancholy, shadows
of promise, in truths only half-revealed
even to ourselves, like:
maternity means more
than bearing the fruit.