Comment on this article


Town Without Mother
by Susan Florence

I'm not surprised she left in winter.
She‐who had forgotten words
yet remembered the language of flowers.

You'd think the others didn't know
so early to farmer's market,
bulging bags of leafy greens
baskets heavy with winter oranges.

It would have been hard for her
to leave in spring when roses bud,
sweet peas waft their subtle scent
and mustard and purple lupin lavish hills.

You'd think he hadn't heard,
the fiddler sawing his song
as if we all wanted to dance.

It would have been hard for her
not to spot the Mariposa Lily,
its three petals open like a chalice
hidden in the shade of her childhood.

Even as I leave they come:
cyclists in shiny synthetics,
vegetarians and the gluten free,
kids on parents shoulders
riding the sea of sunglasses.

The flower vendor must have guessed,
Only one bunch of tulips today?
Yes, for my daughter, the yellow ones.


Return to:

[New] [Archives] [Join] [Contact Us] [Poetry in Motion] [Store] [Staff] [Guidelines]