To My Mother

Most near, most dear, most love and most far,

Under the window where I often found her

Sitting as huge as Asia,  seismic with laughter,

Gin and chicken helpless in her Irish hand,

Irresistible as Rabelais, but most tender  for

Thhe lame dogs and hurt birds that surround her,–

She is a  procession no one can follow after

But be like a little dog following a brass band.