Mother In The Garden

Mother tends to blooms as she has done
for as long as I am able to recall.
She stands, supported by prosthetic knees,
the heat of August heavy on her brow.
I want to call her in, afraid the sun
will cause a stroke. I think of last year's fall,
how she lost her balance trimming trees.
I try to call her in, but by a row
of roses, she cannot quite hear or see.
I hurry down the potted back porch stairs,
past the plum-stained bench and phlox-filled tins.
Transfixed, one foot into eternity,
one foot upon the earth, she turns and grins,
her blue eyes brilliant and beyond my cares.

by Leo Yankevich

Comments (2)

Amazing write, so beautifully written
What a wonderful poem, almost shed a tear!