IT'S NATIONAL POETRY MONTH and as I think of my mother, gone for many years, I remember the blank verse I wrote below and later, published in my poetry book - cover above. The book later had a different cover, but this morning, I use the one with the goose, in honor of the mother goose who lost her nest and eggs a few days ago, a nest near my writer window. I'm sure it was removed by the organization or a resident unappreciative of the wild life drawn to our ponds. Bob and I had watched her steadfast care of the nest, sitting tight during wild rainstorms and a snowfall that occurred. My heart broke the day the nest was gone, because we were going to enjoy a perfect view of her goslings and their growing up. She and the gander are still here, so we've sent our sympathy to them. Here are the words written some time ago after my mother died in a nursing home.
Sacred DaturaOne day, before dawn, my blind, independent mother, died at age 94. Afterward. I walked the desert, thinking of her life, so intertwined with mine. Down the road, in a sloping ditch, I stopped by a blooming Jimson Weed, flower of mystery and power. Also called Sacred Datura, Southwestern Native Americans use it for ceremony. This day, I gathered strength from the pureness of this early morning offering of Jimson Weed. Soon, the heat of the sun would close the flower against the intense light of the day. Back home, I wrote memorial words for my mother, as writers feel the need to do.
Fragile soul so close to sleep, so near to dreams,
Enclosed in life’s deepening shadows,
You too, become translucent in the morning light.
The sun shows hot through your thin petals.
Shines and burns through your thin skin,
Cuts through a mind uneasy
Until prayer transforms to angel song.
Like feathered wings now reaching up.
Soon it will be time to close,
A coda from the pale, white tips,
As another frail, old soul
Escapes toward the sky.