Sometimes even the writer is not sure of the full intent of a poem.
This is an attempt to capture one of my earliest memories.
I was a pre-schooler, and we lived in town then. I remember the long, sloping yard as always being flooded with sunshine.
There was a cat, perhaps more than one ... and those beautiful golden dandelions. I remember tiger lilies, too, but it's the memory of those dandelions that stands out.
Whose hands they were, I'm not sure. My mother's or my grandmother's, I suppose.
I do recall plucking the blossoms and running with them like newly-found nuggets of gold. They were so bright, so treasured. I just had to share them.
Then the memory blurs, becomes "a tangle of wilt." The poem ends, but there are those "promises of things to come." And I sit here wondering ...
Meanwhile, the poem:
Plucked like pats
of butter amid
the swirling hum
of puzzled bees,
taken at a run
hands, lying now
a tangle of wilt
of things to come.
(originally published in Potpourri)
Today's word: promises