“For hands that do dishes, to be as soft as your face”

My Mother’s Day roses blossom in my hands.
They are such an exquisite pink – I see my mother’s face
looking at me through the translucent petals.

I carry them carefully, they peep out shyly from my bag.
Curious, vivacious ever smiling – slightly fragile.
They are the sum of her parts – dainty yet strong.

They are the embodiment of her charm.
They speak volumes of her love and care.
They are her – pretty, vital, loyal and joyful.

The air is changing but the wind bites sharply,
because Spring is child-like and needs protecting.
But the sun shines and tempers the clouds maternally.

I arrange those perfect roses on my parents' grave.
Stretching my hand out to make contact.
And feel their hands one steadfast – one delicate.

I am simply a child again – holding on for dear life.