Poem, First Draft

Where has a month gone?  Instead of blogging, I've been working on the final bits of a book--co-authored with Lois Edstrom--about Whidbey Presbyterian Church history and writing a sermon to be delivered tomorrow.  But this morning, as I took the trash out, I noticed the Ocean Spray bush and remembered how Mom loved it . . .

Do you have Ocean Spray in heaven?

Perhaps non-noxious Scotch Broom?

Poison-free Foxglove?

Or tamed Kudzu from the South?

Mom would like that, you know,

Even Washington nettle without the stings

and Canada thistle with harmless thorns.

She would like to pull weeds in long strips,

satisfying tugs releasing root balls and tapering fingers that cling.

She loved the clean-up of the woods

as much as its beauty.

She gloried in dirt, in pruning hooks, in trimming shears,

in her child-sized chain saw.

Do you have golf carts in heaven?

The one with the “Priscilla” license plate

so she can toodle down wooded driveways

hauling the brush of her labors?

Please tell me there are weeds in heaven

for those who love to dig and pull,

endless forests and gardens in which to happily toil.

Teary-eyed with rapture, Mom once told me

that conducting a symphony

and spreading compost

were much the same.

She spread her arms wide with the music,

scattering life into the soil.

At the time, I thought, “Dementia,”

but now I wonder if she was glimpsing heaven.