Last updated on June 6, 2022
January’s fog as thick as hot milk
Shrouds, bleaches, suffocates the landscape
Only the lone farm’s lights twinkle through the glaze
Setting the milk a bold yellow ablaze
From the window, a young lady watches
Only the candlelight’s shadows move
She can smell the dust, the memories, the toil of long ago
Looking where her grandmother’s tulips used to grow.
Her grandmother was a hard-working woman, never fazed
by any menial tasks or obstacles
Her back bent, as she weeded the tulip patch
Before the thorns and thistles snatch.
She would tell her “don’t you step on that precious soil!”
As the baby girl made her first steps
Almost trampling where the tulips would be in the spring
Her grandmother would swoop and home safely bring
Now the baby girl is a young lady
Watching the fog creeping over where Granny stood
it spills across the earth mound
surrounds the house round and round
The memories of all the years
With grandmother by her side
Now it’s the granddaughter’s turn
To preen the tulips before the summer sun’s burn.
After reflecting on this poem that I wrote, I was reminded of Seamus Heaney’s Digging, It’s an excellent (and very famous) poem covering a somewhat similar theme to this one here.
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