Last night steady rain fell here in the garden,
flooded now with memories of my mother.
The morning sky
still hangs low with heavy clouds
but leaks pale yellow light here and there.
“Sunshine is good for the Cannas,”
I hear her say.
I wonder if she ever knew how little I cared;
how unimpressed I was at the time
with her gardening wisdom?
Nurturing her garden was my mother’s gratification
… a diversion from the unfair hand
she was dealt.
I pull weeds from a patch of Begonias
and remember her happy.
I watch ants parade through the Peonies
and remember her healthy.
I prune the Roses, deadhead the Daisies,
and tie the Clematis a little bit higher for dramatic effect;
but my efforts don’t match the beauty
of Mother’s garden.
Sunlight fades; the air is still.
I realize I’ve tended the garden all day long.
I imitate the Lilies
which have folded themselves in prayer.
“God, grant me another day,” I ask
“filled with memories of Mother’s garden.”
