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