Sunday, May 31, 2015

A Poem for Mom's Birthday

Songs For My Mother: Her Hands
by Anna Hempstead Branch

My mother's hands are cool and fair,
They can do anything.
Delicate memories hide them there
Like flowers in the spring.

When I was small and could not sleep,
She used to come to me,
And with my cheek upon her hand
How sure my rest would be.

For everything she ever touched
Of beautiful or fine,
Their memories living in her hands
Would warm that sleep of mine.

Her hands remembered how they played
One time in meadow streams,
And all the flickering song and shade
Of water took my dreams.

Swift through her haunted fingers pass
Memories of garden things;
I dipped my face in flowers and grass
And sounds of hidden wings.

One time she touched the cloud that kissed
Brown pastures bleak and far;
I leaned my cheek into a mist
And thought I was a star.

All this was very long ago
And I am grown;but yet
The hand that lured my slumber so
I never can forget.

For still when drowsiness comes on
It seems so soft and cool,
Shaped happily beneath my cheek,
Hollow and beautiful.

Happy birthday, Mom!
I love you so much and am so thankful God gave me You!
I know how much you love poems and I can find so many beautiful ones that I know you'd love but remember that time when your neighbor cut down the tree in his front yard and you were so mad that you sent him the Tree poem anonymously!
That was so funny!
And what about you trying to get Dad interested in all the poetry stuff and he just doesn't get it! You can't figure out how anyone on this earth couldn't appreciate poetry! 
Ha, ha! At least I can sympathize with you a little bit!  I am so glad you introduced poetry to me all those years ago! It's just another gift to enjoy!
Maybe you can write a poem for your birthday-maybe about your little trip to Saugatuck!
Again, remember how much you are loved!

Trees
by Joyce Kilmer

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is pressed
Against the earth's sweet-flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day.
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.