A few poems for Mother’s Day, starting with one of my own:
Longing (which goes with the photo, above)
My mother’s roses by Kay Middleton
Mother’s Pastry by Jeanette Gallagher
Helping My Daughter Move into Her First Apartment by Sue Ellen Thompson
writing
From the Mockingbird Archives
These two images make up the entirety of my mockingbird archive. Mockingbirds are not scarce, nor are they particularly camera shy, so I don’t know why there aren’t more.
Speaking of mockingbirds, here’s a video/slideshow from my husband’s archives (with a poem I wrote after seeing the photos).
The Irises
I can’t explain my fascination with irises. My paternal grandmother kept them, but I have few reliable memories of her. They are Tennessee’s state flower, but I never planted them in Tennessee’s soil. Maybe my Virginia house and yard simply called for irises, as some metaphors call for poetry. Maybe my first iris bulbs, prized gifts in a brown paper bag, arrived when they decided I was ready.
Years ago, I preened over blooms, then gaped in awe as sturdy green fans survived hurricanes and snowstorms. I fumed through fall’s brutal business of separating stubborn roots and bulbs, then forgave my unruly brood when spring’s spectacular crop nodded thanks for my labor.
Soon they’ll need separating again. The work is tedious and itchy, fraught with allergy perils. I scratch and sneeze while my irises fight back with the only weapons they possess, an encamped army of spiders and mosquitoes, crickets and ants. Maybe there will be another praying mantis, like the one that leapt into the cuff of my glove last time.
I’m still fascinated, if a bit overwhelmed by the magnitude of what grew out of that brown paper bag.
I wrote parts of this piece several years ago. It was a starting place for what later became one of my favorite poems.
On Edge
Today is the verge
An edgewise day
A boundary zone
Yesterday into tomorrow
As if these hours don’t matter
Won’t add their minutes
To the sum of me
And us, to the total
Of what we’ve done
The slim silhouette of sundial
Shadow fixed in place, open
Angles on a timeless face
Science
Science
Our questions sprout
Like brambles
Dense with unseen truths
Quivering and tense as rabbits
Flushed into the open
When spoken aloud
Darting across the tongue
A disturbance in the listener’s ear
That flees barely glimpsed
Back into conjecture
Understanding a footprint
Of what might have been alive
What tore its warmth free of thorns
And escaped into possibility
Leaving only the suggestion
Of what was hiding
Safe as a copse
As a thicket
Amid the sprawling undergrowth of science
Pricking with the need to be known
Rae Spencer 