The
Forsythia
As
I drive down the gray, misted street
towards
my childhood home,
I
am presented with a glorious
display
of bright, yellow leaves.
Their
tiny movements in the spring rain
radiate
light even as the detritus of leftover
winter
decay sits in and among the branches of the
forsythia. A sign of re-birth:
the
first phoenix of the year – spreading
wings
of flame
to
comfort and warm the dormant soul-
that was left to sleep over
the long winter.
It
was you who taught me to see this glimmer
of
hope and light.
When
I was a child, filled with questions
that
I was still afraid to ask,
you,
my mother, looked at me across the
aqua
vinyl of my childhood classroom (my real classroom)
and
saw my melancholy. The naïve
face
of one who never thought there
could
be evil in the world.
You
told me to “look.”
and
I did.
With
a simple gesture, an act of noticing,
you
taught me to notice as well.
And
I will never forget to look
for the
beacon
-
even when my teacher is gone,
because you have planted the
forsythia in my soul,
where it will thrive and grow
forever.
No comments:
Post a Comment