Earth Mother Lullaby

by douglas john imbrogno

Wrinkle-skinned earth mothers from
another decade, a far more interesting decade
they profess,
nest live orchids in tangled-up hair,
black-cotton gloves rising past thin wrists.
Cocking a Marlboro in one hand,
swapped out with a spit-wrapped joint
in the other. Just so.
Spritzing streams of dirty-white smoke
skyward at an exact 45-degree angle.

The culture has moved on, left them
costumed behind a glass museum wall,
as they nurture the dream,
roots tangled in the rich, chocolate soil
where the tall green stalks of
marijuana still grow.

And all it takes to earn peace
on earth is kindness, grass, and
hips that sway in great ellipses, in
circles wide as the path of Jupiter
tracking through the heavens.

NOTE: A quarter-century-old poem I found today on a piece of paper in a battered cardboard box in the bedroom. Reworked for its revival above.