Your mother is a broad tin roof

The rain is your mother
when she’s angry

And when she sings
your sleepless night to sleep

The see-saw of the tin
A deflection

Against the hem of morning 
a familiar spill

The mottled face
against proud heat
a hand cool-ly calming

Her shadow
for a while, while you sleep

Keeps the rest at least
a blanket thick, and almost noiseless day

Until you’ve done
with the mewled noise
of your forgetting