A Poem for Our Mothers
This is a time of year I think of my mother Rosemary, and her mother Grace. Grandma Grace passed away in March of 1985 and Mom found this poem in a magazine and posted it on her refrigerator. It remained there until she died in 1993 and my Dad gave it to me. How it survived several moves, several refrigerators and a trip to Walla Walla from the Seattle area amazes me. I’d just sold my house when I went to Oregon in 1999 to help care for my Dad who was recovering from an illness; my worldly goods went to Walla Walla in the care of my sons. My refrigerator pictures, notes, magnets, and this poem were all there in an envelope. As I read about other bloggers losing their moms recently I thought I’d share this.
Mother
When I lost my mother
I found her days later
standing in a field
of tall grass
overlooking
the sea
It was spring.
She was directing
the tide with one hand
While organizing a circus
of wildflowers with the other.
She made it look easy.
Making things look easy
was something she did daily.
A little bit at a time,
she used to tell me.
I can see her at work now
on this page
putting things into place
One foot in front of another
Robert Edwards
Thousand Oaks, Calif.
Mother
When I lost my mother
I found her days later
standing in a field
of tall grass
overlooking
the sea
It was spring.
She was directing
the tide with one hand
While organizing a circus
of wildflowers with the other.
She made it look easy.
Making things look easy
was something she did daily.
A little bit at a time,
she used to tell me.
I can see her at work now
on this page
putting things into place
One foot in front of another
Robert Edwards
Thousand Oaks, Calif.
posted by Celia | April 09, 2009
4 Comments:
Celia that is so beautiful. Thank you for sharing it.
Sue.
oh, celia, thank you so much! i will share this with my sister. of course, you know how special it feels to me! :)
Beautiful; my heart aches for my mother.
Thank you.
Anita
Beautiful poem. We don't really know what it's like to be without our mothers, until we lose them. Then there is this big black hole. Like a vacuum where she used to be.
But Mom has come to visit me in my dreams. She's not really gone, she is in the flowers blooming in spring, in the butterfly's wings, the soft breeze against my neck.
Thanks for sharing this lovely poem.
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