Wild Flower or Faded Wreath
The morning clouds in valley, still,
rain over the mountain peaks.
A dead fox roadside and crows gather
home, like my dead: clung to me as
this wet wool, damp from garden run.
This has happened before; on the hall
table: the flower vase, new again–
which holds whatever is placed within
it with equal, tender balance.
Yet I cannot help but see womb;
see mother: cream and bottom heavy, berthed
in place, at the stations of the house:
stove, sink, washroom, judge of content
and by content. Mother: standing with arms
outstretched, our sheets on the linen line
bleached, sun-fresh and winding.
6 replies on “Wild Flower or Faded Wreath”
Ooof! Wonderful. :)
Just beautiful, Dorinda, truly. So glad you are still able to hold down “literary” despite the challenges of being “mama.”
Wow, Dorinda. This is very powerful. I get such a sense of the heft of home and mother.
This is so lovely, Dorinda! Thank you for this poem.
great poem lovely words. mamma
Beautiful work–I like the lines about the vase the best.