My mother never wore fake jewels or glass,
and didn’t pierce her lobes for 50 years,
but I remember carousels of brass
that danced and jingled dangling from her ears.
She walked behind me up the concrete stairs
that brought us to my father’s parents’ place,
those earrings singing in the well of air
like fairy bells.
                              I didn’t see her face,
but I could hear the bouncing horses ring
around the movement of her climbing feet.
Outside a weeping willow drank the spring.
Adherent plastic covered every seat
upstairs. But I recall those carousels
of brass the best, that rang from her like bells.