My mother was never a tree,

nor a tree branch, nor the leaves

that block the sun into shade.

She was the shade itself,

the cool hand that took away fevers

and calmed bruises children got

from playing too hard. She was born

on a prairie that lacked shade

except for the windbreak the CCC planted

after she was born. I think that’s why

she appreciated the little shade there was

on the prairie, and she became

what she appreciated. She folded the

fear of God into her skin, knew

her calling was to provide balms

to those who needed balm. For years,

my mother dreamed of the bison

that once roamed the land of her youth.

A mother bison provides shade

for her calves. All she has to do

is stand beside them. When the grass

died for lack of rain, it was the shade

that sustained my mother

and her sisters. They ate bowls of shade

for breakfast and daydreamed of rain.

Right now, my mother

is the dream that runs through my mind,

and everywhere she goes, her steps leave

foot-shaped indentations of shade.