Mother's Day Poem by Michael Pruchnicki

There is a forest preserve near where I live-
an open space where carloads of city dwellers
converge to celebrate festive occasions
with family and friends on bright Sundays
among oak and spruce
at pine plank picnic tables.

Mahogany-hued women in ankle-length sarees
cluster with children around volleyball nets-
accents of Calcutta and Bombay hover
and move lightly through the groves,
imparting a haunting musical zest to the feast.

Stout ruddy-faced men sit in lawn chairs
lamenting the old country - Ukraine and Poland.
In this New World, kielbasa sizzles on the grill,
their sons and daughters pitch horseshoes,
and only matriarchs wear babushkas.

Dark-eyed women from Yucatan and Veracruz
ladle rice and beans onto tortillas and tostadas.
Teens in muscle-shirts eye slender girls in jeans-
the girls sigh, giggle - 'Pela mi corazon! '
But they do not cry! And hearts are not broken!

Clouds of charcoal smoke roll through crowded groves-
growl of distant traffic blends with boom-box bass!
'La Cucaracha' bugles and accordians oom-pah-pah!

My heart sings with a line from an old pop tune-
'I'll be seeing you in all these old familiar places! '

At the edge of a patch of woods, I see deer poised,
silent, ghostly in deepening shadows, alert and curious-

We pause, my dog and I, and she looks at me
with canine regard as though to ask something profound-
twilight dims the sight!

'Macushla, the ghost of you clings! '