Poetry for Mom

The First and Last Word

Jan Veile

Every known word scatters in time,
as seeds raise flowers in a garden.
Row upon row we walk through seasons
fingerprinting leaves and petals
momentarily caressed then lost.
Sentences pause then continue to flow;
lines break as in a poem, page by page. 

 

What’s written assumes such pace,
fleeting years of stanzas
composed so quickly, just a few
rhymes and favorite lines
can be recalled and cherished.
Age threatens to fade every memory,
wilting yellow as old postcards.

 

Though forgetful of the scenery,
our history described by letters,
we’ll always remember the very first word.
Known before it was even spoken,
known in the crook of her arm,
as we planted ourselves into time.
We’ll always remember the word…

 

Mother.

 

Just as we arrived naked on blank paper
with only her lifeline into the story,
we’ll attach ourselves to faith again
at the end of the book, her name repeated.
Calling out so she will hear and all will be well
before the final click of the last period
locks all these words together.

Shawn, Mom and Jan

Seasons

By Erin Leary

 

A leaf falls slowly to ground
A season moves through its path
I’m surprised, really
That this can still be the case
without you.
 
The days pass and still
you are not here
The Stars come out,
the moon rises,
the sun does its daily dance
through the sky.
 
You were once the
center of my universe,
The sun to my orbit
and I looked to you for all things
My breath rose and fell
in time with yours
and all good rested
in the hollow of your shoulder.
 
Seasons slip by and I feel their loss
wondering how it is
that they fall away
while I drift on
without moorings,
Sliding away from shore
like a leaf on the tide.

Tell me something good.....

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