Parenthood

We work the black compost into the ground
beneath the feet of the rhododendrons,
their pale leaves spent at summer’s end
like sun-bleached blankets, then wait
for the roots to soak in the nutrients,
like a baby with a bottle, to carry
our offering up umber branches
and emerald the haggard leaves.
 
It is this way with raising our children:
help with late-night homework,
padded bandages on injured knees,
piano lessons and soccer practices,
an urgent errand the morning of a game
after waking up with cleats too small. 
 
As seasons change, the rhododendrons
don’t thank us, they don’t notice
the sore shoulders or aching backs,
the late night and lost sleep, 
but we wake one morning to find
they’ve opened, scarlet and flamingo,
luminous blossoms glistening in sunlight.