my mother’s garden has a
hickory tree built like an ancestral rock
with waxy leaves, annually conquering winter winds.
the battle scars mar the bark, mangled and burnt but
Her heart sings to beat pure.
the tree sprouts new buds
despite the old branch’s protests,
shouldering the new task of
a new spring. the wrinkles that
line Her faces can crawl to shrivel
Her brain but the roots continue to
weave to collect gutter tears instead.
who would i be to be against the tree? She?
the family stands proud and strong.
who would i be, to be selfish
under selfless guise? names are
shared as parceled food plentiful, diverse,
a legacy, a sad promise
to not copy the disposition
of the grandmother i know.
the garden is far
Her wicker half woven.
a luxury to have, a future and time
both arduous tasks to fulfill.
a careful balance, line to maintain and walk
a bite for change turns into a scuffle for tradition.
i want to grow and twist and split into an old tree
that offers comfort and shade instead of
thorns of a past world that haunts the young.
my mother’s garden has a hickory tree built like a proud fist
each finger curled except the pinky. a silent promise
to gift the gift of a name.