I see her in the beauty of small things
Her dried rose bouquets and gingham table cloths
The freezer full of baked banana muffins
Two cats tumbling on a window sill and a park bench
Overlooking the Mississippi, a place to watch eagles.
She would often pull us from her dinner table
And march us over to the west-facing window
The corals and lavenders of her favorite sunset
Displayed outside the pane, my dinner cooling.
Her glass-fronted cupboards held crystal
And vases in cooling shades of lilac and soft blue
Teacups and dessert plates patterned with violets
And pansies with purple faces and yellow dresses.
She loved purple in her gardens and china and linens
But she never wore the color or hung it in her closet.
She was a classy dresser rarely choosing the subtle
There were red and orange plaid blazers, lacy teal skirts.
Everything she touched bloomed with intensity
Her soft-petaled violets, frothy purple and pink
Cacti adorned with paper thin blossoms and
A cherry red valentine planted in the middle of the pot.
As spring crept over the snowy hills and the wind
Became still and gentle in the river's valleys
She looked towards her window beside her chair
And the view became her life, her energy, her relief.
Her limbs were failing and she would hurt with motion
The slight touch of our hands caused her to cry out
Minutes after she died I was relieved to finally
Gather her up in my arms and hold her. Hold her.
She stayed in that chair. And we brought her garden
To the deck window. A steady stream of pansies,
Begonias and the ancient geranium from the basement
That bloomed for many winters next to the ironing board.
Walking quietly into her front room I would see her
My small mother, the shrunken and bruised body,
Her face turned to the dappled light from her window
Her thoughts many miles away to another place.
Perhaps she was a girl again, pink-skinned and healthy
And youthfully strong. Slender, muscled calves
Pedaling fast down the country highway to small bergs
Her shiny black hair trailing behind her in the wind.
Her dried rose bouquets and gingham table cloths
The freezer full of baked banana muffins
Two cats tumbling on a window sill and a park bench
Overlooking the Mississippi, a place to watch eagles.
She would often pull us from her dinner table
And march us over to the west-facing window
The corals and lavenders of her favorite sunset
Displayed outside the pane, my dinner cooling.
Her glass-fronted cupboards held crystal
And vases in cooling shades of lilac and soft blue
Teacups and dessert plates patterned with violets
And pansies with purple faces and yellow dresses.
She loved purple in her gardens and china and linens
But she never wore the color or hung it in her closet.
She was a classy dresser rarely choosing the subtle
There were red and orange plaid blazers, lacy teal skirts.
Everything she touched bloomed with intensity
Her soft-petaled violets, frothy purple and pink
Cacti adorned with paper thin blossoms and
A cherry red valentine planted in the middle of the pot.
As spring crept over the snowy hills and the wind
Became still and gentle in the river's valleys
She looked towards her window beside her chair
And the view became her life, her energy, her relief.
Her limbs were failing and she would hurt with motion
The slight touch of our hands caused her to cry out
Minutes after she died I was relieved to finally
Gather her up in my arms and hold her. Hold her.
She stayed in that chair. And we brought her garden
To the deck window. A steady stream of pansies,
Begonias and the ancient geranium from the basement
That bloomed for many winters next to the ironing board.
Walking quietly into her front room I would see her
My small mother, the shrunken and bruised body,
Her face turned to the dappled light from her window
Her thoughts many miles away to another place.
Perhaps she was a girl again, pink-skinned and healthy
And youthfully strong. Slender, muscled calves
Pedaling fast down the country highway to small bergs
Her shiny black hair trailing behind her in the wind.
2 comments:
Dawn, my apologies, we brought papa up Spicy Chili and cabbage soup. So I aplogize ahead of time for the rich flatulence odiferous atmosphere.
I just dropped of five jars of bean soup. I add to the problem. He seemed very happy with all his soup.
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