My Father is a Poet. He also has a green thumb. But, that's another post. A true craftsman, I have enjoyed reading his books, stories, and especially, his poetry. As much as he loves writing it seems to take a back seat to his wife & family (11 children), his many years of church callings (extensive, lay ministry), and his job (in which he has travelled to over 50 countries). We sometimes ask each other how our "writing is going". So, I count this as my reminder.
I suppose this poem is about my Great-Grandmother, Luella Jeppsen, in her flower garden that was nestled in that small valley, where the old house still stands.
In Praise of Aged Women
In the flower-ghosted gardens
Of the hill rimmed town
The quick, small hands of ancient women,
Like sparrow priestesses
In ritual of seeds and bulbs,
Perform again the preparatory rites of earth so well
That numinescent plants
Are soon seen rising greenly in the air.
At their touch
New leaves leap out and whorl,
Small buds uncurl from fingertips,
Attach themselves to stems
And then unravel lithely in the gentle pressure
Of the naked air.
The ancient fingers
Flick among the thorns and bees like rain;
Binding, healing bent and broken stems
With quickened love.
In gratitude the women lift
Their aged hands up to the sun
Revealing rainbow fingers,
The colored powder of the petals
Having dusted them with dye.
- Randall L. Hall
Only a few days ago I was expressing to him my adoration for poppies.
"Grandma Jeppsen loved poppies," he remarked. "She had them running all along the front of the house."
responses to your wonderful comments to come, tomorrow. smiles.