Picture of My Mother

My picture of her in black and white
is a little girl with freckles and an old fashioned bonnet
standing with both feet on the lower rail of a white board fence.
She wears a gingham dress that almost fits and two braids.
She stares at me, perhaps a little nervous about her future,
like the edge of some tragic bridge
of premonition from her eyes to mine,
the hint of an s o s in film.

But nothing so grand as tragedy is in store –
just the dull draining of years,
the clumsy dance of time’s rushes,
the slow way we all get used to disappointment
with the execution of our choices.
There were more than dreams
that would be cold as ashes
in the ex-fire of her little heart.

But there wouldn’t be all that much pain;
just the drudgery of caring what happened next
long after life ceased to mock excitement
with hints of hope or thrill.
The pain would all be dull for her,
the waste of it all,
the slow slow slow waste of it all,
the failure to find color in a drab world.

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2 Comments on “Picture of My Mother”

  1. Simone Says:

    I’ve been liking the poems I’ve been reading on WordPress, lately. Yours is no exception. Fine poem 🙂 And the use of the term “ex-fire” stood out to me.


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