To my Mother, Ill in Hospital

The mind has its guards.
It cannot be reckoned –
I cannot tell
how part of each dull moment wishes you well.

Words cannot express
a light thought-flame that slips the guards
in joy of knowing you.
I would my words could bring you
a token of happiness.

For in a card-game
a flare of diamonds met the eye.

But the mind has its guards.
Sudden delight is unreckoned.
Words are a lie.

Let that instant then surpass this rhyme
and carry a token, lit on through its own time –

and a card-picture excel
where poor words do not tell –

gathering the shine of dull moments

a flare of diamonds –

so Mother I pick out my love for you unreckoned
yet more than the truth of years, an instant of flame –

even in a shoddy second
in a desultory game of cards.