My Mother's Diary
A poem on comfort
My Mother’s Diary
Time is but a blink,
a second behind eyelids,
minutes, days, and years,
a whirl to open eyes.
A collection of frozen moments,
nestled, a treasure glitters,
seconds, minutes make the years,
and life pollinates the pages.
She writes, and I watch,
enveloped, her sacred space,
sometimes smiles, sometimes tears,
my sky all in attendance.
I notice, and time stops,
my mother takes her minutes,
a child’s shooting stars,
find pause when moon is waning.
**********************
I’m home alone and curious,
a time traveler of 12,
minutes and days the same,
an aroma one can’t refuse.
Pages and pages written,
her words like wildflowers,
entries like the seasons,
a song that sings eternity.
Warm like mid-day summer,
then cool like autumn breeze,
her words ride on wind,
and chapters bottle it in.
Honey like no other,
rich, pure and sweet,
some is mine to take,
the pages addressed to me.
**********************
I’m 14 and in mourning,
with tears, a loved one lost,
“To my boy…” that sweet aroma,
her scribbles trace her face.
Now 18 with big dreams,
and change on the horizon,
minutes, days, just four more rises,
“You’re braver than you seem.”
Then 22, I’m lost not found,
the world like fire wild,
seconds, minutes, days, and years,
the embers, seared and swollen.
I shuffle through the pages,
and droplets find the passage,
“You’re all we ever dreamed of”
and hope sprouts through the clearing.
**********************
Another decade at 30,
I wonder what’s in store,
the years are kind, and entries kinder,
“The best is yet to come.”
Her words grand and grounding,
I learn to tame the storm,
my calling through the whirlwind,
a pen, a tempest charm.
There’s comfort in her pages,
my secret until today,
our flora shares an aria,
a melody we both now play.
Peace in life made infinite,
a meadow to those who listen,
“To my baby, you’ll move mountains.”
today's your day, now glisten.
About the Creator
Joseph Feduniewicz
I am passionate about writing fiction inspired by the people, places, and things that I love the most.
Why don't writers score touchdowns?
Because writers block.
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