Mother, excerpt

 

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You have been gone a month today
and have missed three rains and one nightlong
watch for tornadoes. I sat in the cellar
from six to eight while fat spring clouds
went somersaulting, rumbling east. Then it poured,
a storm that walked on legs of lightning,
dragging its shaggy belly over the fields.

Were it not for the way you taught me to look
at the world, to see the life at play in everything,
I would have to be lonely forever.


–Ted Kooser
Delights & Shadows

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whiskeyriver
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Father

 

 

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Today you would be ninety-seven

if you had lived, and we would all be

miserable, you and your children,

driving from clinic to clinic,

an ancient fearful hypochondriac

and his fretful son and daughter,

asking directions, trying to read 

the complicated, fading map of cures.

But with your dignity intact

you have been gone for twenty years,

and I am glad for all of us, although

I miss you every day—the heartbeat

under your necktie, the hand cupped

on the back of my neck, Old Spice

in the air, your voice delighted with stories.

On this day each year you loved to relate

that the moment of your birth

your mother glanced out the window

and saw lilacs in bloom. Well, today

lilacs are blooming in side yards 

all over Iowa, still welcoming you.

 

—Ted Kooser

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