thinking of my
mother sliding through the
dappled light, on her way to
at the pond to
listen to the frogs sing.
Every spring the same story, every
The poem was written while enroute from Halifax to Calgary, over Saskatchewan, then posted in Calgary, while waiting for a flight to Victoria. (Kudos to free wifi services in airports. Thank you!)
Photos were taken in or near St. Paris, Ohio, where my parents live.
I like this poem with its strict number of syllables per line. I like its form and I really like its image. Your mother will like it too.ReplyDelete
Thank you! She did! This is my mother in so many ways--always attuned to the small glorious things in the world that matter. Writing poetry helps me to be more like her, to cultivate such attentiveness, such pleasure in small things. xx kReplyDelete