Curled dogwood blossoms fade
from pink to mottled peach.
Light, that shone from within,
like the glow on your skin
when you lay swaddled at my breast,
sits heavy on leathery petals.
In shy retreat they greet the hardening sun,
browning at edges, older, wiser and ready
to begin feast of wind, bee and pollen.
Germination into seed, freed into earth.
Thrusting through seasoned mulch,
three dicotyledon sprouts, their flesh
fresh and green, like your children
reaching for sun and space,
thirsty for growth and claiming depth,
determined to make
blushing pink.
You speak so eloquently of the simplistic beauty around you. Well done!
Thank you. I just hope my daughter doesn’t take offense at me comparing her to a has-been flower. She still has so much beauty.
A masterpiece! A self portrait too? Are you not “thirsty for growth and claiming depth” ? If so we believe that you have reached “blushing pink” with this gem of a poem. We will see our beloved dogwood tree with new eyes today and we have a new metaphor for the growth of our grandchildren who grow and change too quickly. Thank-you from Marion and Jim!
After I wrote my poem, (darn it), I found a haiku poem on this wordpress site that changed the way I see dogwoods. The poem is so perfect; so simple.
check it out:
White Petals
by pearlnelson, posted on March 31, 2010
Here’s the link: http://pearlnelson.wordpress.com/2010/03/31/180/
She is a master of words!
My inspiration for this poem began yesterday morning. I noticed the other day in T’s photo that although she is still beautiful in her 30′s, she is losing that peaches and cream bloom of budding youth. Then, I looked out my window, and the dogwood blossoms had just passed their peak, showing spotty, blotchy petals that curled and crusted. It seemed such a shame, once again spring is nearing its end. Then I remembered my grandchildren who have that blush, and last year’s dogwood seeds had sprouted – so I felt better and was inspired to write this poem. I wanted to touch that feeling I get when I see my daughter fulfilling the roles of a woman as she approaches middle-age. In my heart she is still that beautiful child who lifted your hair in her fairy-lite fingers one sleepy morning and whispered, “Bootiful Turls.”
Thank goodness we have our memories.
Thank you so much for your comments!