My mother, the poet whose total output is only one poem a year written for my birthday is the woman whose hands turn flower beds into Eden, housework into history, sewing into art . . . and who in a day can seem to build Rome The woman with eyes full of clouds and crocuses, her human imprint at home on every wall, and a sunset smile of satisfaction . . . . Bringing up children not poems, never once imagining there is any difference.