Monday, May 12, 2025

Spring is a Dream


It is the twelfth of May, garden half planted



A stick of clay: brown horse, a star, a wish--
I thank my daughter for this



Mother's Day passed, for me
In my own mother's garden:
Her hostas and geraniums,


An old desk adorned with pots of flowers


Her pride in her garden
The same garden, silent for three years
Since my father died,
It once hosted tea parties
I remember him well with binoculars 
At that table, there--
Searching blue sky for birds--
Birthday parties, celebrations


So many gatherings
So many photos of what is gone
Yet, still unfurling
Stubborn, refusing to die


We laughted until we cried
And celebrated ourselves,
As only mothers can do
Unselfishly


What it means  
To plan your own celebration
And be happy you did
Only we understand 
Each other
 


It was all so you could gather 
with your children and grandchildren
In a beautiful space


Yes, I planted flowers for myself
And all who would come!
(Isn't that the definition of mother?)


Between my husband and I
There is but one parent left


I ask, is that a blessing
Or, a burden, to be left 
To rebuild your garden alone


There is no answer but this


We plant flowers, and dream of picnics under trees


We dream of children



Of days gone, of people gone



And, for a moment, to feel 
What it could feel like
To see them all return to us
All love return to us
At once




 

3 comments:

  1. Beautiful heartfelt post...
    We buried Ted's dad's ashes on the day before Mothers Day, right beside the ashes of Ted\s mom. Neither of us have living parents now, just souls on the other side to pray for.

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    Replies
    1. Oh, that is beautiful, Shirley. May they rest in peace together until you see them again.

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  2. I had so many thoughts and feelings that I couldn’t write anything. I will say that love is a gift Always.

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