Mulberries

    
The summer you learned to let everything go
was the summer I learned how to coax my body through a day,
how to strap it onto roller blades and glide ten miles
with a despondent son.  How to pull that body
through a landscape.
How to perform the simple, impossible tasks
of dinner at a small table, of saying the same things
over and over. How to quietly watch that teenaged son
walk through a new town with kids I was unsure of.
The summer you stepped out of this life
was the summer I learned
about small gestures and beautiful weeds.
Running through fields
and carrying back Yarrow and Queen Anne’s lace.
It was time to take a large life
and fit it somehow
into a much smaller one.
Downstairs the neighbor’s new baby was crying.
A woman across the street brought cookies
on a china plate.  In the backyard
the mulberry tree was wild with starlings.
Someone in a house behind me
began playing the harp in the evenings.
I would sit on the back steps and listen, thinking about
the heart of whoever it was, playing like that.  
What it must know
to play like that.


                                                                From Indiana Review

                                                                         

 

 

 

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Latest comments

16.07 | 18:46

Woweezowee, Missy, Congratulations on your new book!!!
This is a great web page where I can finally access all your writings!

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24.01 | 19:56

Missy,
I have been reading your poems occasionally because I am not used to poetry and need practice. I LOVE this poem.
xoxx Leslie

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28.12 | 13:58

Missy-Marie, first, my best wishes & many blessings for the new year 2015, soon to be! Second, congratulations for all your beautiful master pieces creations.

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11.08 | 21:04

Still chuckling as I write this. Wonderful nugget of family life.

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