Mother’s Garden

garden

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.”

Foto Friday #3

HE LOVES ME, HE LOVES ME NOT

IMG_5570 (2)

Summer arrived yesterday and with it, the blooming of one of my favorite flowers—the daisy. Daisies evoke the memory of plucking off petals one by one while reciting the phrase “he loves me” and “he loves me not”. This, according to my older-therefore-much-wiser sister, was an accurate prediction of a young man’s affection. It’s a good thing we had an abundance of daisies when we were growing up, as she and I would perform this whimsical little ritual over and over until we got the answers we wanted!