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This air is flooded with her. I am a boy again, and my mother
and I lie on wet grass, laughing. She startles, turns to
marigolds at my side, saying beautiful, and I can see the red
there is in them.

When she would fall into her thoughts, we'd look for what
distracted her from us.

My mother's gone again as suddenly as ever and, seven months
after the funeral, I go dancing. I am becoming grateful.
Breathing, thinking, marigolds.

Submitted: Monday, March 26, 2012

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  • Carolyn Binkley (3/31/2014 11:01:00 AM)

    This poem tells a beautiful, yet moving story. So much is expressed and revealed in so few words. Beautifully told.

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  • Aftab Alam Khursheed (3/26/2012 8:53:00 AM)

    Grace is a boon indeed/nice way to pay tribute/I love your ideas...carry on....up to the.....

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