Today was my mother’s birthday, so I wrote a poem for her.
I called it . . .
Remembering Marion
The colorful birds and flowers and sky,
the leaves, the scents, the warmth, the breeze,
the memories that ride on them, going back
to the patch of lilies-of-the-valley that grew
at the side of Grandma’s house, between the house
and the little sidewalk that went to the garage, remember?
and the huge bouquets of lilacs that sat on my mother’s kitchen table
and how, if you closed your eyes, their scent could convince you
that you had arrived in heaven.
And today all of this, and more, because, in addition to it being May,
it is the anniversary of your birth a hundred and one years ago.
Imagine that.
And the remembering of you breathes from the birds’ bright feathers
and the hues that paint the tulips and phlox and from the scent
of the lilies-of-the-valley and the lilacs, and none of it as sweet
or precious as your gentle smile.
I wish for you a week touched by beauty and by beautiful memories.
Warmly,
Susan