A memory.


Digging Deep

Moles digging deep,

I watch my mother as she weeps

Moles digging deep

I hold onto her skirt, asking why

Carved out of wood

She enfolds me in her skirts

Carved out of wood

I reach up for her arms

Made of polished cedar

I ask her why she cries

Made of polished cedar

She tells me Grandpa died.





2006 Anne Westlund




Poetry by Anne Westlund
Read 762 times
Written on 2006-10-03 at 04:53

Tags Sorrow 

dott Save as a bookmark (requires login)
dott Write a comment (requires login)
dott Send as email (requires login)
dott Print text


Zoya Zaidi
I liked the way you interweave your love for your mother and your awe at her beauty, with the sorrow she is lamenting, in the poem; only the metaphors of moles digging in polished wood is a bit intruiging, though very charming...
I guess you are trying to idicate decay?

**Hugs**
Love,
Zoya
2006-10-07


Amanda K
Anne,
A very good sequence you have maintained in the poem. Well-done.
2006-10-04


Kari
Tough times. A moment to remember. A good poem.
2006-10-03