by Carol Lynn Pearson
Sometimes--in a sitting down moment
on a day
of stove-heating the sad-irons
and layering newspaper between
quilts to keep us warmer--
I heard my mother say,
"I wish I had time
to write a poem."
And then she would start
the potatoes.
When I was twelve
a thing happened that
broke my heart--
a school thing I've forgotten now.
For hours I cried my humiliation
into a handkerchief.
Next day my mother
brought it in from ironing--
that handkerchief--
and gave it to me special.
"Here," she laid it in my lap.
"You've had it in happy times
and in sad.
There'll be more of both.
Keep it, and it will remind you
the better follows the bad."
She went back to ironing,
and my finger traced
the little flowers of fading blue.
I can remember other poems
she left me, too.
I really like this poem.
ReplyDeleteMaybe because I remember standing in the living room while my mother ironed - or I ironed and she was doing something else - and it's like a movie in my head - very clear and vivid.
I love those kinds of memories.
Thanks for posting it.