Poem for Mom

Picking Violets

I was a shy child

Alone a lot.

So, I would spend early afternoons

Just picking violets in the shade.

I would pick them until my small hands ached

From tightly gripping the bundle of stems.


They grew best

Under the spirea bushes

Where the sun couldn't bleach

The royal purple to pale blue.

Only the most perfect blossoms

Were chosen for the honor

Of adorning my mother's dresser.


I would take care to pick the flowers

At the very base of the stem

To make sure the blossoms

Could reach over the top

Of the small blue and gold vase

Used only for displaying 1000 violets.

Many Roads

                                                   Many Roads

 

I am not you and you are not me

Although most times we see as we,

Times do come when we disagree,

We each have our own way of gaining serenity.

That is the way it will always be.

But as long as peace can be found

At the end of whatever road

That we go down

Isn't happiness still the prize?

There are many books in God's library

And many roads to follow

All revealing parts of the same truth

But told in different ways.

Each will enrich a variety of minds

That are all beautiful.

Like yours and mine.