Redux

A friend suggested that Friday's post entitled Picking Flowers  was a poem waiting to happen.  I agree. So, always up for a challenge, I began to think about a poem based on a poet's garden walk. Before I had time to write the poem,  my three-year -old grandson arrived for an overnight stay  and  as the weekend unfolded, my poem took shape.  

  Writing poetry gives me great pleasure, if not great poetry. The joy comes from the satisfaction of capturing a fleeting  moment in words.

                                                 Grandmother's Flowers

                                                 Once she gathered dandelions,

                                                 to carry home to mother

                                                 fashioning a tiny bouquet.

                                                 Soon those yellow treasures

                                                 turned to roadside weeds

                                                 and childhood flew away.
                           
                                                Then came her oldest  daughter
                                                with a bunch of  heady lilacs
                                                on a sunny spring day.

                                                Her daughter  grew up
                                                moved to New York City,
                                                another childhood put away.

                                               Today she wanders

                                               through a garden gate

                                               thinking of that dandelion day

                                               while she helps a little boy gather

                                               pink blossoms and rose buds

                                               the colors of  a summer day.

                                              Now the boy named Henry
                                              carries flowers home to mother,
                                              his own handpicked nosegay.

                                              Grandmother savors this moment

                                              soon to be a memory
                                              another childhood hurries away.

 

 Do you ever write poetry?