A Found Memory

Fossil: Dry. Smooth? Not smooth – rough.

Light! Weighs nothing. I move my finger

to slip over the top end and find smooth.

A clean cut. A harsh chopping off.



A crack has appeared. It’s old,

dirt-encrusted, making the fissure

stand out from the beige of light

and dark mottled skin.



This portion of dead twig has been displaced,

into my warm, clutching hand.

It is bowed, perhaps with the weight

of brilliant blossom in fertile times.

But with age and exile,

the object bears no hint of past profusion.

No scar of leaf or flower.

Only grooves in dry, brittle skin.



Viewed from the smooth top,

a solid golden core betrays its strength.

Marred by a red blemish - perfect oval,

tree blood showing the pain of dissection.



Where did you come from, my severed arm?

You stood in proud grandeur.

High, looking down on sheep

grazing green grounds beneath.



Your ghostly mother, her children

housing nests, hollows, where new life begins.

Waving in the sweeping wind. Bowing

to earth’s elements. Dressing for season’s ball.



A young boy climbed your sturdy limbs

seeking adventure, chasing the sun

to knock a parrot’s nest – not caring

about fragile eggs of new families.



You remind me of my mother.

Her honesty. Loveliness.

No frills - just lines of age.

Her purpose obvious. To bear fruit.



The golden core of subtle strength was always known.

The ability to bend when winds buffeted.

Fissures evidence damage – results of force

against will or ability. Life wasn’t always easy.



My mother has been gone for a long time now,

but hugging this piece of dry, light branch,

comforts me. The memories of mother.

The naturalness of her protection.



I remember her hands at the end. Dry,

mottled, beige and brown. Clutching

mine in death. Cold. The heat from my warmth

trying desperately to infuse life.



NOTE: Also on this page: http: //www.mmbpublishing.com/MothersDayPoems.html



Frances Macaulay Forde © 1998