Sunday, August 23, 2015

mother and i

mother and i,
she tried to be a grower but
didn’t get grandfather’s green thumb;
i did.

i am the grower and
i am the arranger, too;
that is from my father.

i arrange flowers that are words;
words that are images;
it was his gift.

my aunt says it’s apparent.
she says, i’m my father’s son;
my gilded tongue, sometimes forky;
the softened charm that is rarely refused.

not that i share nothing with mother.
mother and i, we can be alike.
we can be removed;

hidden behind the leaves and roses
among the thorns,
too threatening for curious fingers.

i can, not show the softened heart,
keep my shirt sleeves unrolled.
mother and i; we have only one sun
but very different worlds.