She sat on a chair and held the gushing hose for her rock garden,
The rocks she had gathered over time and carefully aligned
Were holding back the earth...at least mostly.
While I spooned mud in cookie pans, hard at play,
Shaping my slippery cakes of mud and clay,
Me, so proud of them.
She pondered the coal bill now past due...
How much for the milkman? How much for the light?
How much for the meal we'd eat that night?
My mud-cake pans full, I walked to her and asked,
"What is that red flower called?"
"A calla lily, June, my favorite."
The petals looked like fiery tongues to me
Like they'd grown in my fairy tales tempestuously
Scarlet petals a bit darkened, somewhat
wrinkled at their rims,
But its foliage and tall stems provided sturdy limbs
That set it apart.
Mom watered and watered. The air was fragrant with the smell of wet earth and blossom.
And there was dream in her eyes.