Sitting By That Tree

I was going to say,
I thought the wind stronger,
On that day with my kids at the hospice,
Visiting my mother,

But as I sit here not far from her tree,
Where ashes I buried,
The wind picks up as if I conjured it,
For it to help escort my memories,

Watching the leaves dance in myriad ways,
The wind never scared her,
Now it’s all I have when I’m feeling lost,
In this very small world,

Unless you know,
Where your life most will thrive,
It’s easy to be safe under a thumb,
‘Til a life you love’s no longer alive.

Happy Birthday, Yesterday, Mom

It was just mom’s birthday,
She died two years ago,
Dad and I went to a cottage to fish,
Think mom wanted to go,

On the way there she disabled my phone,
Glad we e’en found the place,
I backed the boat trailer into a truck,
You should have seen the look on my dad’s face,

The wifi was down, no contact at all,
Then it started to rain,
The owner then left when we went to bed,
Now my dad went insane.

What had we done?
He woke me late at night,
Then in the morning we caught lots of fish,
Mom saying e’rything would be alright.

Happy Anniversary

Fifty-one years ago,
Or is it fifty-two?
A young man married a younger woman,
Now, what is he to do?

It wasn't long ago he was thinking,
"We can finally live,
Done with this life's responsibilities,
To you, love, your rewards I can now give,

You no longer have to care for others,
Let me take care of you,
The struggle, the toil, your sacrifices,
We can start fresh, anew."

But then, she died,
He is left with his guilt,
Alone, he tries his best to speak to her,
He can almost hear her bright, smiling lilt.

Her Journals

You used to write of birds,
The thoughts that they must spawn,
Free as they are from the human follies,
Of selfish ambition,

There is naught to prove they're any less deep,
A cocky presumption,
That our blundering grope for some meaning,
Shows we possess some greater perception.

"But what," you said, "do we have on the birds?"
Content in their motions,
If any faith at all can be granted,
To our observations,

Which are oft base,
Grounded in aversion,
More than likely we're observed from on high,
An example of nature's perversion.

On The shelf

It's a little vessel,
Would be a good child's thing,
A canopic jar the size of your thumb,
Engraved with birds flying,

The top spins off and it's very well made,
The metal's cold to touch,
If you smoke weed it'd be perfect for that,
You'd hardly see it sitting in a hutch,

But mom didn't smoke, and she's in there too,
At least a part of her,
Not that I cannot be apart from her,
She'd certainly concur,

It's just for now,
Until she's in a tree,
Sucked up by roots from the soil she's mixed in,
Then that jar could be used to hold your weed.

Not For Mom

Just 'cause it's Mother's Day,
This isn't about her,
She's not alive no more, so what's the point?
She is not of this world.

Though she's in my thoughts in ev'ry moment,
Isn't everyone?
We're all a product of interaction,
Informed by observing our reactions.

Like mom would say, you must follow your heart.
Well, there I go again!
Placing her words as the measure of all,
Like they were true wisdom.

I think they were,
Honesty person'fied,
Oh please may I face life with the same grace,
As mom did right up to the day she died.

Alone

Sitting in underwear,
Slight tremor on the side,
Planes, boats, cars all equidistant from me,
Still, far enough to hide,

This is a moment outside of real life,
Where others still exist,
You can't escape into yourself out there,
The way my mother did at the hospice,

When I asked her how she was feeling, then,
She said she's letting go,
Of the world, her husband and children, too,
TMI? I don't know.

I read to her,
A book called The Dinner,
'Til she silently waved for me to stop,
I laughed the last laugh of the remainer.

Do You Believe?

I asked mom for a sign,
By the way, she is dead,
To tell me that I had done the right thing,
Despite what had been said,

Lilliana was her name when alive,
A short few months ago,
More spirit than flesh, if anyone is,
E'en dad believes she may be a ghost,

A little later I went to buy shoes,
It wasn't my plan, y'see,
But circumstances led me to Winner's,
For I had soaking feet,

The shoes I found,
Had no price sticker, yet,
A half hour after I  asked for that sign,
The cashier called, "Lilliana, price check".

The Mom Project

Mom said she wanted peace,
For herself and the earth,
For all to forgive themselves and others,
To know purpose from birth,

That is the question that always returned,
"What am I meant to do?"
She wrote constantly about that, and yet,
She also questioned her writing's purview,

Didn't know she expressed all of our thoughts,
In ways that would touch hearts,
Show one how to be honest with oneself,
'Fore this world she departs,

She even wrote,
Dreamed she was a writer,
If I could just share her thoughts with the world,
Peace may yet shine through a little brighter.