slumped glass distorts the morning light
that illumines the matins of the buckeye buds,
like a rippled Monet painting of water lilies.
The stippled grass and filtered light is painted
with myriad strokes of unmeasurable greenness—
no wonder my grandmother loved this place
of bright spring grass, flanked by meadow and gully,
a reminder of home, in another country,
of what was lost, the idea of homeland,
a country she could never return to,
not even as she worked the garden, now unkempt,
a place carved deep in the thickets of the heart.
3/23/22 CPITS Write On! with Terri Glass
No comments:
Post a Comment