Tag: Love

Mother’s Garden

Grammy Writes20 Comments

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.”

Tracks in the Snow

Grammy Writes32 Comments

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A poem for my grandchildren:

This morning from my window I saw tracks in the snow.

“Look!” I said to Momma, “Can we see where they go?”

“It’s cold outside!” she answered, “Are you sure you want to do that?”

“Oh, I do!” I said to Momma, “I’ll go get my coat and hat!”

So, I ran to the closet where we keep our winter clothes.

I pulled out boots and mittens plus a scarf to shield my nose.

With Momma bundled up like me, we stepped outside together.

So warmly we had dressed ourselves we didn’t mind the weather.

Tracks led us to the river, then up the rocky ridge,

through the brush and bramble and over the narrow bridge.

We heard a sound then turned to see a fawn and graceful doe

huddled close together under branches hanging low.

The baby deer lay on the ground curled up fast asleep

on a simple bed of crusty leaves where the snow was not as deep.

The doe leaped to attention watching every move we made,

but we were nice and quiet, so she wouldn’t be afraid.

I looked into her big brown eyes and softly said “Hello!”

“So, you’re the ones who left behind the tracks in the snow.”

As Momma took me by the hand, we slowly backed away

from the handsome gentle creatures who had surely made my day.

Across the bridge and through the brush, then up to the plateau,

we paused for just a moment to enjoy the view below.

So brightly the sun glistened that each snowflake was a jewel,

just like glitter on a picture that I had made at school.

Back home I shed my coat and hat. Somewhere I’d lost a mitten.

“Hot chocolate?” Momma asked me as she headed for the kitchen.

“Thanks”, I said to Momma when she handed me a cup.

It tasted great, but really, it’s her smile that warmed me up!

I sat down by the window just as I had done that morning

with thoughts of all we’d seen and done while we were out exploring.

I gazed down to the path where we had been not long ago.

“Look!” I said to Momma, “we made tracks in the snow!”

 

Always find joy in the little things, my dears!

with love,

Grammy

RDP: Bridge

Nancy Merrill Post a Day: The Things That Matter Most

Foto Friday #3

Grammy Writes19 Comments

HE LOVES ME, HE LOVES ME NOT

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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!

On Father’s Day

Grammy Writes7 Comments

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On Father’s Day, I am thankful for the Dads who protect not only their daughters, but all the girls in the world by being men who are gallant and civil and respectful; Dads who take care of those whom they could easily suppress but wouldn’t dare—because they are Fathers! I am thankful for the Dads who set good examples for their sons by nurturing a willingness to help others, proving that love displays more strength than indifference does; Dads who walk the straight and narrow path of responsibility—because they are Fathers!

The Man, the Girl and the Lake

Grammy Writes12 Comments

I usually write poetry, but my first attempt at flash fiction (a short story in 500 words or less) is the feature post at Spillwords Press today. You can read it here

The Man, The Girl And The Lake at Spillwords.com

or below:

 

The Man, the Girl and the Lake

Early every morning she follows him, pole in one hand, tackle in the other. She ambles behind him as he makes his way to the water’s edge. He loads the boat with supplies while she sits alone on the weathered dock. Soon he will lift her into the boat, not because he must, but because that’s the way it’s always been. The man and the girl will see the sunrise from halfway across the lake.

The girl is the man’s pride and joy. Their mornings on the lake are what he lives for as he is totally devoted to the child. She, with a cherub face, and he with thick gray hair on his head and his chin, have the same dramatic eyes: blue as the horizon where the water meets the sky. He seems larger than life to her, and despite knowing better, she suspects he was born a man, for she can’t quite envision him as a child.

It is late autumn in the Northern Lakes of upper Michigan. The water temperature is already frigid, and the surrounding vegetation is a diverging combination of evergreen and brown, upright and fallen, alive and dead. A layer of fog lies in wait to be burned away by the sun. So peaceful is the tranquil stillness that the man and the girl are reluctant to speak out of respect for the reverent silence of the lake.

She watches as he sets the boat to dead drift. It is here they will fish until the fish no longer bite. An hour or so into the ritual of baiting and catching and baiting again, the man suddenly stands, clutches his chest and tries to keep his balance near the rim of the bow. He looks at the girl and sees fear in her eyes. She sees a stoic realization in his.

“I love you, Lizbeth! Stay in the boat”, he manages to plead as he topples backward into the heart of the lake.

“Papa, come back!”

“Stay in the boat!”

“Papa, come back!”

“Stay in…”

The boat makes its way to shore just after midnight, close to the weathered dock from which it came.

Weeks after the man’s passing, the girl can still remember how brilliant the moon was that night; the way it spread its luster like a blanket over the waves – and over him. She wishes she had slipped from the boat and held his hand.

Not unlike the boat did on the day her father died, the girl’s mind begins to drift. She can hear his laughter in the breath of the wind as it blows in and out across the lake. She listens from the edge of the dock until she finally falls into darkness. The laughter stops. She searches for the man but cannot find him. She is lost.

As she struggles in the depths of despair, the girl hears the man’s voice again. “It’s time to go home now, Lisbeth; but early every morning, come fish with me at dawn.”