Violets

by

Katherine Tildes

The violets are blooming,
it reminds me of my Mother.
Also of times when I was little,
when my Father and I would tromp
through the woods.
We’d come to the stream that lead to a
little pond we fondly named Tildes Pond.

I remember those days as if they were yesterday.
The soft trickling of the stream as it emptied into the pond
beneath a fallen snag of a tree.
The dozens of flowers that sprang up around the life-giving water source,
the lilies, the violets, the trilliums, and so forth.
My father used to always tell me "Violets were you Mother’s favorite_"
and I picked them and worshipped them because I was without her,
and they reminded me of her, in some fashion.

I recall that I used to spend hours in the woods;
wandering aimlessly through fields and groves of trees,
whispering, even then, to the fairy folk that only I knew existed.
My doggie, Teddy, would accompany me on these expeditions
deep into the woods,
where we would come across the scents of wildlife,
the creatures that scurried away from under our feet.
After hours would pass my faithful friend and I
would return home to my Father,
to a warm house full of love and hope.

Sometimes I wish those days were still,
that we hadn’t moved,
that I hadn’t gone away that July,
that he hadn’t died,
that I didn’t have to grow up.
But I did and the I wish’s are useless.

NEXT?
Why don't you look at TRAIN MAN
by: Paul Curtis
from: Woking, England, UK

To visit all of Katherine Tildes's poems, click HERE

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