My Mother's Flower Garden
My spade cuts deep in dirt,
A narrow swath of adventure,
Turning up wet, juicy worms,
Plump with soil, squiggling
Quickly back into the dark, rich loam.
With shovel in hand,
I turn the clumps of sod,
Shake grass free of dirt.
And toss it aside, as,
With straight edges and curves
I create a monument to
My mother’s love of all
Growing things, tenderly
Transplanting her daffodils
Deep in the warm, waiting earth,
Warm like she was, prepared to shield,
Nurture the potential beauty in these bulbs
The way she shielded, nurtured, fed
The potential she saw in all of us.
She, like “Mother Earth” herself,
Was a most amazing teacher.
With wisdom, seemingly beyond
Her tender years, she schooled us
In forgiveness, generosity of spirit,
In “loving others as ourselves,” in
Golden words from the “Good Book”
And how to pray from the heart.
Caring, giving, loving hands,
Those same loving hands
That turned and tilled the soil,
Touched us with kindness, with pride.
Her arms, those same arms
That joyfully tended her flowers,
Those tender arms enfolded us, her
Hugs a haven for many of life’s hurts.
Mom’s shoulders could bear
The weight of the world,
Of many worlds, and often did,
Her tears a balm for those we wept.
She seldom told a fairy tale.
Her favorite stories were family tales.
But her gift for story telling
Fed my love of written words.
With smiles, imagination and sweat
She could lay a path to beauty, and
This was her legacy, her gift to me as
I make a nest of dirt for another bulb.