Mom’s ninety-one; death has to come
Yet sadness I know still.
But in her space I won’t remain
When eyes begin to fill.
I’ll show her only happiness
And not the pain inside
By going deep within to where
Fond memories reside.
And when I can’t contain my tears
The place that I will go
Is out into our garden where
They’ll make her flowers grow.
That’s a really touching metaphor at the end there, Doug. I just hope those flowers don’t get too much water!
Thanks again CS. Even facing the risk of ridicule from the faithful to fuzzy free verse you always manage to appreciate my rigorous rhymes.
In July my mother fought shingles and a bladder infection in a stretch of six weeks. When she wasn’t sleeping in bed she was sleeping on the couch. She only ate what little she could at my insistence. I wrote this poem at our lowest point. The garden is not metaphorical. When watching my mother suffer got too much for me I went out and worked in our garden which we wouldn’t have were it not for her inspiration and perspiration. I must admit though that any tears I was unable to contain fell into a bucket of mortar I used to point my little retaining walls.