Mothering

In the depths of dreams her hand
still calms the fever,
cools the heat,
pulls up the blanket,
straightens the sheet
and reaches through the early morning light
to slay the dragons of the night.
The soft, smooth hand that once dried tears,
soothed scrapes and wounds
is melted memory, shadow-
bound to the other side of life’s window,
where palms and fingertips form
a mirror image on the icy glass
through which they seldom pass.