In My Mother’s Honor

She opened the front door then pulled it closed behind her.
Standing at the edge of the porch she released the walker.
It zigged and zagged on its journey down the ramp.

Gripping the side rails, she stepped with purpose,
lifting her head to the sky and the breeze,
she breathed in lilac and sweet apple blossoms.
The tree and hedge fully matured, planted decades before
when walking, kneeling, and gardening were easy.
Approaching the end of the ramp, she stopped, turned,
looked at the closed front door.

I didn’t know then that it would be our last visit,
to the place where the door was always open,
coffee was always brewing,
and company was always welcome.

A vision of home,
my mother walking without assistance,
the scent of ripe lilacs and apple blossoms
dwells in me.


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Winter Squall

On the eve of February, the weather
played a capriccio that lifted
me through the day.

Morning and sun notes
played warmth on the window.

Noon and the sun coaxed me outdoors
to extract a plastic bag caught
in the scrappy lilac hedge.

Afternoon and the sky turned metallic
as I walked to the mouth of the canyon.
Wind rushed and snow sprinkled,
air cooled and a snow squall conducted me homeward.

Young runners, their hurried feet slapped pavement,
legs crimson red from the cold,
hair plastered to foreheads, they too caught
in the sudden squall.

How like weather, in almost February to fool
us into believing, like the too eager daffodil,
that warmth is a momentary delight in winter.

I entered the kitchen, shook the snow squall
off my coat, my face icy from the wet cold,
charmed by the song winter played.