How can it be Spring without her?

A Poem-Inspired by Annalise Parady, a Maya Stein gathering, & my Mama

(Photo, hand & foot-mine😂)

*Penned the below during “Gentle Company’s” Poetry gathering with Jess Janz (hosted by Annalise Parady~Poet, Social Worker, & Pie baker) yesterday morning. Title & last line inspired by a recent Maya Stein, Poet Laureate of Maine’s workshop fellow participant.)

Hello again,

I know I’ve been rather haphazard with my posts here.

While I’m still gaining my footing here, I so appreciate all the tenderness & patience this space offers; those who’ve stopped to read, & comment, message me, & re-share.

*In short order, 😉 I will be sharing with more specificity what this space will offer & when; who I think my words might interest, & who might want to run in the other direction.😂

Until then, Mother’s Day is on its way. And whew~ what a loaded day that can be/is for So many. With deep respect & acknowledging this truth, I’m just sharing a little something; not my best work, probably not my worst either;

rather, just something that spilled out Sunday morning about my own Mama, who recently passed on. This will be our second Mother’s Day without her.

(*For Poetry & Writing prompts & just all around creative community, I highly recommend the two spaces I cited above & 2 other greats I frequent: Brittany@ & Bree.)

(I tend toward mostly not titling my Poems, but I suppose for the sake of the post, I’ve called this “How can it be Spring without her?”

[& for anyone who likes to be read to, I’ve braved this a trial run too.]🫣

My mother spoke in tongues,

at tuck-ins

to my 3 baby brothers and me.

She’d take the thumb of her left hand,

[It was smooth, and soft then;

well before she smashed it

in the car that day my Daddy slowly drove away.]

That thumb

would touch

my forehead,

make the sign of the cross,

Over & over & over & over,

& she’d sputter

sounds,

mesmerizing sounds,

with lots of:

“sshhh’s,” & “hhaaaa’s,”

ahhhh’s & “mmmm’s.”

Try as I might,

I could never replicate

those vibrations;

though I ponder now,

how I choose

“Swaha” as

my mantra,

my meditation,

for “Surrender.”

I walk to the woods.

I’m wandering lost

until I reach

the tall Pines;

sigh

in relief;

inhale

the scent of cedar;

like her

secret chest,

she’d now & then

unlock,

share with me,

some safekeeping

she’ d stowed inside.

I march,

one foot

in front of the other,

upon scattered stones & sticks;

my footprints,

braille markings

in the muddy patches,

so I’ll know the way out.

Will I?

Know the way out?

I carry on anyway,

pass dead things:

tree stumps

& giant trunks

bowled over,

cracked,

split,

wide-

open

& gaping,

with holes

& rot,

And notice,

life

sprouting anyway,

defiantly-

mushrooms

& trillium,

fourteen shades of moss,

& the bloodroot.

I remember,

that bloodroot,

it closes at night,

protects,

its center

from rain and frost.

And what do I do?

I touch the bark

of Birch & Hemlock,

pick up an acorn,

press it to my palm;

And finally,

reach her:

my Mama in ash,

just sprinkles now,

under my giant Oak.

I cleave to her,

forehead to

cork,

shedding,

thumb,

her skin,

over & over & over & over &

whisper my wishes

for wisdom to the wind:

“Teach me tongues and tell me;

how can it be Spring without her?”

4/28/24

CK

Xo,

Colleen