Thursday, April 8, 2010

A Roll In The Hay

Two days ago Johanna read aloud:

The barn creaks.
Swallows nest in the rafters
and fly overhead.

Fat hens cackle over newly
laid eggs.

Red and black pigs 
squeal and fight.

And I take the hay
  from my hair--

That you put there.

The poem was written by my Mother.  It is sweetly sexual and my four year old daughter reads it clearly and seriously.  I sit next to the love of my life who gives my hand a quick squeeze.  He needs to tell me that the poem is very good.  I know that it is.  He knows more than that though.  For in these eight year he has journeyed with me he has relentlessly sought to discover the Mother who gave me dear memories of deep snowed winter walks, of picnics in all seasons, of waking in wonder in the morning to greet small chicks and budding Trilliums.  That he was always able to see the Mother that I loved--despite her very serious illness-- was his victory, my victory, love's victory, and ultimately my Mom's victory.    

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