The Light in Rembrandt’s Mother
After an old woman called ‘The Artist’s Mother’ by Rembrandt.
Eyes too difficult to read have seen it all;
she stares from a knowing dark space.
The folds of glow and shade settle in her lines
and she shines in his illumination.
She could be anybody’s mother:
one who would scold at a misplaced collar,
at yellowed lace in need of a dash and splash
of lye, one who would tenderly admonish the dim,
spend her life with sheets on bleaching grounds,
whose heart would be spread with pride,
who would guide the brush she made
as it swelled with the trembling water of life
so hers would not diminish in a shrinking
multiverse, but would sparkle in furrowed light.