In My Head

The voice in my head.

Mother's angelic wings

fall like giant wet snow flakes,

piling against the door frame,

soaking the sills.

Notes sung high and wafting,

peppering and basting the swollen air;

a constant buffering of

intention and hope.

My subtle attempts at ingenuity

curved and lofted over a guarded plate.

Mother swings, my arms

attached at the root,

striking a balance

between what she thinks reasonable

and how hard I am willing

to swing against her back.