My mother looked like she belonged to summer. In June and July her smile was softer. Her laugh was louder. Her eyes were brighter. Her body loved the feel of shorts and sundresses. Casual. She looked picture perfect on the front porch steps.
I still get to enjoy her spring onions, garlic, and grape hyacinths in the backyard. Now when I think about her and early summer plants, gardens and flowers, I am immediately drawn to knockout roses. Red blossoms in early summer.
On summer mornings
Under a January moon, my mother slipped away
from winter’s slumber to take the stage of summer.
the little dipper lights dim
as the curtain of early morning rises
to the woman sipping coffee on the back patio
before time slips away.
the sound of the screen door
the sprinkler on the herb garden
where 15 years later the garlic still grows.
the rustle of the newspaper being read
with all those words not needed now,
only the simple “I love you” inside my head.
the morning after a Wichita mountain thunderstorm
she plucks the petal of a marguerite,
“he loves me, he loves me not,
he loves me passionately,”
a bouquet of wildest dreams she offers me.
“If that mockingbird don’t sing
momma’s gonna buy you a diamond ring.”
she’s woody guthrie poetry.
notre dame is a beautiful woman,
her bellringer is a rebel.
she and quasimodo.
he sounds the bell
the horse runs free.