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Posts Tagged ‘mother’

Sweet Seeds

Fragments

.

November by the river.

You give me bitten apples

from your pockets.

.

I taste your little hands

inside the peelings.

Wondering at the hush

of teeth, I sink into the skin.

.

Upside down and too close

to deep water, you ask me

if the earth is octagonal.

Daughter, how can I tell you?

I never knew the sides.

.

The sky thickens and you

give me rocks you’ve tasted,

clay shaped against your tongue.

Your breath the smell of mussel shells

hidden in your palm.

.

Busily, your fingers find

the inside soft of fallen trees,

muddy underneaths of leaves,

steep slick edges, mossy clouds.

.

The dampness of the breeze

against your skin, you ask me

if the earth will lose its spin

and when.

.

Daughter, you will discover

we make our way on broken clay.

I did not leave a trail.

.

Your voice falls in fragments

mud jelled in footprints

beside the shadowed

bruises of a river.

.

You say God lives in all small places,

frozen in the limbs of autumn trees,

in the apples, the leaves, the rocks

.

and unless we lose our way

we should walk softly

not to wake the rocks.

.

We will not lose our way, I say.

.

We leave your sweet seeds

along the twisted path

to be eaten by the birds

at dawn.

Julie Buffaloe-Yoder

.

.

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I tried to write a Christmas poem, but this one came out instead. So it will have to suffice. This time of year makes me think on a deeper level about loved ones. This one’s in honor of my mother. .She has been so good to me.

.

Time Warp

Julie Buffaloe-Yoder

I felt sorry for myself

in the 1980′s when

I headed for college

.

with a taped up suitcase,

no handle, three faded

blouses, dollar t-shirts,

fifty nine cent flip-flops,

old jeans, then I opened

.

the suitcase; there

was a wrinkled

ten dollar bill

and my mother’s

best outfit,

far older than

anything I owned.

.

White polka dots on

a navy blue blouse,

huge sailor collar

with a tie,

studded pumps,

pencil skirt

.

nylons with lines

up the back, big fat

plastic red beads,

bracelet to match..

.

I put on that outfit

ready to fight anyone

who might laugh,

went to a keg party.

.

It was a hit—the rich girls

thought I was retro cool.

The guys thought I

had Bette Davis eyes.

.

The next morning,

I thought of my mother

dreaming of her girl

the only one in college,

clicking down echoing halls

instead of scrubbing them.

.

I thought of Mama’s

sweet red knuckles

washing, ironing, folding

her best, not dreaming

.

her girl was at a kegger

in that polka dot blouse

hopping up and down

like a purple-eyed fool

.

to The Time Warp

and Combat Rock.

.

.

.

.

 

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