My Mother's Flowers

My Mother and Me

 My Mother’s Flowers

Every Memorial Day weekend we journeyed to the greenhouse

to pick out flats of petunias, geraniums, and marigolds 

to plant around our home and also for the gravestones

of the two cemeteries where my parents’ deceased were buried.

Stooping over the soil with her shovel, hand digging holes,

Mother artfully arranged geraniums, marigolds, and petunias

and an occasional coleus in her front yard flower beds.

As a child, I often found my mother standing with her garden hose,

watering her flowers before the rise of the strong morning sun.

I knew not to disturb her then, as this was her time.

Time passed. My mother could no longer care for flowerbeds. 

Her eyesight dimmed year after year, blindness was inevitable.

Instead she planted flowers in large pots on the front porch.

It was important for her to grow flowers.

Then one day when my mother was almost blind

she awoke to find her flower pots stolen.

Gone were the plants that had been her pride,

the only reminder of her gardens of yesteryear.

The thieves stole more than flowers from my mother,

they stole her desire to grow them.  She never had flowers again.

They had been all that was left for her to nurture.

Nothing more to care for is a very sad thing.

Monday is Memorial Day in this country.  I am sharing a poem that involves a family Memorial Day tradition---at least at the beginning of the poem.  It is not a new poem, but I don't have the heart to write a new Memorial Day poem this year.  I do like this one AND the picture.  Smiles.

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I See Her

I See Her

I see  her face along the tree-lined avenue
hear her voice in the aria of chirping birds
smell her perfume in the mist of the morning

and I dream I am once again a young girl
fine blonde hair blowing in the spring breeze
my whole life still on the horizon

and in this dream I pick a dandelion bouquet
she will like more than anything in the world
and I wait for her arms to reach to surround me

with love and a smile only a mother can give
and as I hold the flowers near my heart
I find she has gone where I cannot yet follow

I see her face along the tree-lined avenue
hear her voice in the aria of chirping birds
smell her perfume in the mist of the morning.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom.


This is written for Poets United Poetry Pantry.
It is Mother's Day on Sunday, May 10.
(My mother has been deceased about 28 years.)

My Mother's Flowers

My Mother and Me

 My Mother’s Flowers

Every Memorial Day weekend we journeyed to the greenhouse

to pick out flats of petunias, geraniums, and marigolds 

to plant around our home and also for the gravestones

of the two cemeteries where my parents’ deceased were buried.

Stooping over the soil with her shovel, hand digging holes,

Mother artfully arranged geraniums, marigolds, and petunias

and an occasional coleus in her front yard flower beds.

As a child, I often found my mother standing with her garden hose,

watering her flowers before the rise of the strong morning sun.

I knew not to disturb her then, as this was her time.

Time passed. My mother could no longer care for flowerbeds. 

Her eyesight dimmed year after year, blindness was inevitable.

Instead she planted flowers in large pots on the front porch.

It was important for her to grow flowers.

Then one day when my mother was almost blind

she awoke to find her flower pots stolen.

Gone were the plants that had been her pride,

the only reminder of her gardens of yesteryear.

The thieves stole more than flowers from my mother,

they stole her desire to grow them.  She never had flowers again.

They had been all that was left for her to nurture.

Nothing more to care for is a very sad thing.

I am sharing this with Poets United's celebration of Mother's Day today.  It is not a new poem.  I wrote it before I blogged.  However, this is the poem I wanted to share today because it is a poem that means so much to me and still brings tears to my eyes when I read it.

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