My mother's garden is a place of peace when the blooms spread their fragrance and the dew drops on the magnificent colors. My mother tends her garden everyday. She's 69 years old and nearly every day from the spring thaw to the first flake of snow she tends her flowers. I wrote a poem about the legacy she gave me in her love of flowers once. It didn't turn out the way I wanted it to. It sounds like a cheap country song or a Hallmark facsimile. I'll leave it here, maybe you can help me put it straight... but this is about the peace my mother feels when she is amongst her flowers. Bugs bite her, sweat pours from her, chemicals irritate her, but she continues until she sees coming out of the ground what she knew was hidden in a crude bulb all along. She delights in the way the stems lift up toward the sky. She inspires those bulbs to be the most beautiful in the ground. She talks to them, cajoles them and then lovingly places them in the earth. Then she waits and watches. "See Tammy? I knew it would be the most beautiful one!" She tells me this as we go from flower to flower. Over and over I hear, ahhs, and ohhs, and see? Over and over again I see the enchantment in her eyes. The twinkle that was put there by a flower. I love my mother's flowers. They bring joy to her. They give her peace. They make her more beautiful, if that is even a possibility. The Iris Mother's hands tended flowers When they were oh, so very small, Grandma's hands would guide her, Showing her flowers, Loving them all. Out of Grandma's garden grew, A most amazing sight, A flower proud and beautiful, Of pure, angelic white. It was this snow-white flower, That Grandma loved the best, She tended this flower most graciously, No one would ever guess, That in this unsung flower, Many would recall, A shared and joyous moment, Watching spring nod off to fall. Years went by and seasons died, At heavens gate a daughter cried, To see her mother pass inside. Yet, a gift was given, And it was to be identified in... My hands that tended flowers When they were oh, so very small Mother's hands would guide me, Showing me flowers Loving them all. But, set apart from all the rest, Was the flower Mother loved the best. She tended this flower most affectionately, Guided by love, she might confess. Secret hands help tend this flower, Hands from heaven above, Unknowingly, together the flower Grows with love. Years went by and seasons died, At heavens gate a daughter cried, To see her mother pass inside. Yet, a gift was given, And it was to be identified in... The hands that now tend flowers, They are oh, so very small, My loving hands guide her, Showing her flowers, Loving them all. Together, we grow flowers, With eagerness and zest, But in a special corner grows, The one I love the best. It is this special flower, My daughter will come to know, As a friend, close and dear, While it flourishes and grows. The hands that tend the flowers Are oh, so very small, And they are drawn to one flower, That is the finest of them all. It holds within its petals, A shared love of women gone, And whispers of secret tomorrows, Of which will be her own. She holds this majestic flower, Up to the heavens above, And star lit eyes gaze down upon her, Filled with wonder, Filled with love. Years will slip by, and seasons will die, At heavens gate a daughter will cry, To see a mother pass inside, But, a gift will be given, And it will be identified in... The hands that tend the flowers. love me later~tj
