My Mother

The long shadows walk in the sun,

walk with the sound of lament,

the wild pipes’ Scottish lay.

The work's just begun

but the short day is done.

Walk where the wild flowers sway,

and the long shadows play.

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She stoops to touch

each leaf under her feet,

calling its name.

She walks the tangled fields

always among friends.

And through the wreckage

of the world’s ideas

steering a free true course

through warring bigotries,

my star that guides heart-mind

carries her name.

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Lupine pink and blue and white,

such a simple lovely sight.

Lupine blue and white and pink:

life’s a rocky road I think.

Lupine pink and white and blue,

life so short and love so true.

Beloved one, through all our life

(daughter, sister, mother, wife)

when the lupine blooms anew

its beauty fills our hearts with you.

All our lives you have your part

(life so short, so sweet each breath.)

Your love has grown

so deep in our hearts,

it cannot be uprooted

even by death.

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Mid-Eastern Goddess of living fire,

immortality,

worshiped in antiquity,

Asherah is the Tree of Life.

Biblical burning bush intoned:

“Ayer, Asher, Ayer.”

Africans end their prayers:

Ashe! earthing Her energy.

______________________________

My mother’s ashes

represent to me

that she is now beyond

all pain,

safe from indignity.

In my brother’s backyard

they will help to grow

flowers planted in her memory.

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She will always be for me

Earth Mother,

surrounded by flowers,

always be a tree;

quaking aspen, delicate, sparkling,

dancing in the wind.

Fruitful and nurturing,

she gave life to

my brother, sister, me.

Her grand-children and great-grand-children

carry on

her genes and ingenious legacy,

now that she, the poet’s

gone.

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Trying to ease the news

of my mother’s death,

I told my little grandson truth:

“She felt very proud and glad

to know you are doing a good job

going ahead into the future.”

He responded loyally,

“We’re proud of her,

doing such a good job

going ahead of us into the past.”

____________________________

She said, dying,

that she was content

going back to nature.

She is Mother Nature for me,

always surrounded by flowers,

Flowers also fade and disappear,

but they bloom undying

in loving light of memory.

____________________________________

Dying at 93, my mom

put my cold hand under her armpit and said,

“Mrs. Howversen warmed my hand like this

when I was a child coming in from sledding.”

Such a tender, lucid moment of good mothering,

reaching out past death to warm the future!

________________________________________________________

I am a woman with a knife,

bending

among reeds and willows,

cutting the mint

I planted years ago:

this joyous rampant tangle

that will outlive me.

Everywhere She walks

Her footprints

spring up herbs and flowers,

yes, and the hidden gifts

of Her strong medicines.

The knife is also Hers,

cutting down the harvest.

______________________________________

When I return to the well-spring,

Holy Source,

I’ll meet my old black cat 

who loved to drink

from a cup in the sink,

her panther haunches high,

ready to spring,

the freshest water

reflecting yellow fire in her eyes.

When I return

I will feel the whisker-thrill

of wilderness as a caress.

I will thank the black

River of Abundance

and drink deep.

© Tamara Rasmussen 2018