My Mother; taken much too soon; only person in this world I should like to know thoroughly...and never had a chance...
Before long she will be no more
than a distant memory
a dwell in the dark
point of focus that takes
a sudden sharp
feeling of pain in my heart.
Hour by hour she goes away
with every passing thought
with a changing season
with all eight drums of a chime
winds gentle touch
with a finger tickle the ivories passing by.
But not her common sense
that comes with the light rain
falling mist blurring the pain
nor her music and a morning song
taken by a robin eastern yellow bird
that climbs with her to the mountain’s top
leaving empty room of vacated body
bit by bit thoroughly mixed
with mother nature's soil.
Long gone her hair. Her skin.
Her bones. Her face.
But not her beauty. Warm heart.
Boundless amount of energy
Not her persuasiveness to shape the world
her generosity giving away her own dreams.
Nor her sacrifices made in favour of her child
and the organic matter of her laughter. I still hear.
And see her tightrope walk
between the smooth space of beauty
and rigidity of life
in the garden of her peony rose.
In front of Her Little House on the Hill.
Painted cottage warm nest in harmony
with the blue sky and her love guiding eyes. Place
for her yearns and kids to grow.
She knew all diverging ways
walking in forest of the Valley of Hope
looking for a poisonous Lily
that grows from the tears as she wept.
Asking for help.
To drop a hint.
No! Not to cause a death but defence herself
against the nature of a "being" eating her soul.
Oh! God! ... Her Lily of the Valley!
Does it still grow there?
Her Little House on the Hill (c) 2013 Isabella Koldras
Free verse poem.
Her Little House on the Hill, Isabella Koldras,