My mother's birthday is May 1st
Wings of her eyes, Joni blasting—
Her birthday song.

Seasons circle with weaving
Of branches and ribbons. Kicking feet.
It is playful this circle, and for a time
We are not trying
To slow it down.

Flower crowns and dancing
are traditional. The spring may
Be fresh, snow even, lots.
Some years it rains
With the immediacy of summer

Some call this labor
Day, but its not too much work
To make your mother breakfast.
All you need to do is:
Crackle the eggs in a skillet,
Perhaps a pancake or two; she likes to eat
little things for breakfast.
Make her coffee, too. I know
it's early.

It's late morning when
The swing finally hits the ground
After years of rotting rope
And creaking branch. Sitting
my legs parallel to dirt.
Eyes to the leaves and ears
half-tuned. Briskness of spring
Felt only really in April, blossoms.

When I come back inside
My mother is crying. She is
another year older today. I tell her not
to worry. It's all a circle
Game.