As we head towards Mother’s Day here in the United States, I am sharing some poems written about motherhood. I wrote this poem last spring about the late arrival of spring and well, about other things said and unsaid between mother and daughter.
“It’s only spring up to the knees.”
My daughter dribbles her ball
as the season pulls on its high socks
hoping to get put in the game soon.
“Just a matter of time,”
I tell her without believing it.
True, the forest reopened its sauna,
sweating out puddles of frost.
Still, frigid flakes impulsively fall
lacquering the trees
in starched white coats;
surgeons biopsying sunshine.
Winter’s dandruff is repulsive
and each day indoors feels woolen.
No new cars scratch the driveway,
so now even the way out will chafe.