Mother's Garden
I stood on my knees in her garden
staring at my inexperience
and a few leftover memories of her,
in her spot, by her rose bush.
How she loved roses.
I can feel her nursing, caring,
pulling weeds of her heart
and tossing then into a wheel-barrow.
This little garden smells like her.
I can find her here, I can hear her humming.
I will water her roses with my tears.
I will pull the weeds -for her.
I will start with that large, ugly, thorny,
emptiness, the one that is larger than
the wheat fields of Kansas
and free her rose bush.
How she loved roses
and now I love them too.
Copyright © Mike Samford | Year Posted 2007
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