Gingerlilies
For my mother
By Lauren K. Alleyne | Posted: October 10, 2005
They were your children too,
grew from the magic of your fingers
coaxing, mulching, digging air
into their soil.
You would rush home, exhausted
from teaching, see your babies
wilting in the heat and forget
that you were ever tired,
grab the hose and spray the shine back
into their red drooping heads,
their dusty leaves.
You would kneel, knees sunk deep
in dark manure and whisper to them whatever words you thought
would make them grow. You kept
the weeds at bay with a vengeance;
you pruned them, trimming away
dead blossoms and limbs – things
they would have held on to, but you
knew would only weigh them down.
They too have seen your face
creased with concern, hovering
over theirs, have tasted the salt
of your tears spilling
from eyes rimmed with worry,
have felt the firmness of your touch
on their fevered brows
willing them to wellness.
But you always demur
when someone compliments you
on your garden, as if your calloused
hands and tired spine and days of sweat
and heartache counted for nothing.
Hands on your hips, brown eyes
shining with pride, you reply:
I only gave them what they needed
They did the blooming on their own.
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