Two Poems for Mother and Son

Photos on this page ©Dawn Sanborn

 

Valentine

 

 

It's wrapped in preschool frenzy

the way only a child can do.

 

"A machine," he tells me,

"is on the front."

One...creating love; ahhh

my mechanical son.

Teachers confide in me

more of his words:

Given to a mom who

makes his heart

 

"Happy."

 

At home,

tracing the scalloped edging

with fingertips scented in orange,

I remember Spaghettio lips

staining my cheek

and blushed giggles as we've danced

...while the dishes sat out

on the side of the sink.

It's easy to satisfy the emotions

          of the young.

 

Notice how he's used the colors:

our favorites -- vibrant reds

for my speeding boy

and purple

for the parent with the wounded heart.

We circulate within each other,

bleeding shared tears

giving life to new dreams.

Turning and turning again.

Turning on anything,

to fill us with peace...

even a paper

     love machine.

Michelle Fimon

©2009

 

 



 

 

 

 Mommy's Permission

 

Walking beside my son

while he explores every puddle

with cause and effect

on the way to the school grounds.

He's implored me to allow him to play

with the new plunger; I relent

then observe...

 

...reflecting on my own emotions

pooled in this water and mud

he extracts from the March earth.

Left alone,

various puddles are clear and flowing:

a constant trickle toward the gutter

seems to remove what's no longer

meant to be

 

Yet, with some, we stir murkiness

resembling days when self doubt builds,

blocking the faith I've chosen to embrace.

It's a difficult thing not to sink further into early spring

when life germinates below the surface

beyond my reach,

but life, like a vacuum, pulls closer

drawing me up from the icy cesspool of the past.

 

I tilt my head and ponder

how words have meanings interlaced:

"cesspool"

for example.

To us, it's a reservoir for waste and filth -- and yet,

 

beautifully,

 

its Latin origin offers a literal

 

DRAWING OF BREATH.

 

So true, I contend,

watching my son push

through melting snow into the sogginess

settling below.

Tender green hope for the weary to see.

I breath deeply,

thawing

for but a second

and

let the fear finally go.

 

Michelle Fimon

©2010