wild onions

Dear Mama,
My intent was to write a poem about death.
A poem about grief and pain,a poem
about remembering how
and when you left. Your departure
did not come swiftly,nor with little pain
as we had hoped. You held on and waited
for me to remember my promise
to be there as witness to your passing.

But this is not a poem about me.
It is about departure.Your transition
from mammal to atom.
Away from grief and pain, away
from death and written word.

I remember your collection of Poe,
how you taught me to read, but more
importantly, to understand
and look deep down, within the soul
of the words that graced the pages.
And Shakespeare, yes we wore the spines,
leather bound and pages perforated, into dust-
with delicate, tactile recitation.

All of those words we consumed
were soul food.They were solace
fed with hope and openess,
and as I walk upon this earth,
with so many gifts inside me,
I cannot help but remember you,

And this ground you tended
with careful eye and observation.
You never knew, but poetry was discovered
in this dirt, and excavated
with fingernails; sprouts and seedlings
nourished with joyous tears.

Words are your legacy,
seedlings planted before I was born.
Now I harvest those seedlings
as your mother did before you.
My children are strong. They have green eyes,
and laugh in a way
that reminds me of you.

I told them that some day,
( as Whitman once reminded)
we will be fertile ground-
compost, mulch, vegetable matter
in need of water, even after death
when our bodies have returned to dust
and worry is neither memory nor loss,
we remain in some form, always present
as words, as poetry is always present
even in the air that we breathe.

And I told them-
your children will be,
as my mother’s children are,
and her mother‘s children were-
poets.

Somewhat unintentional though,
springing as if wild onions.
Their existance may feel out of place
at times, and in place
of marathons run or mountains climbed,
we acknowledge our mortality
with every word we write. But
now I know, as you always knew-

Even a poem must end,
as though it once possessed
some sort of life of it's own.