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 799 times
Written on 2006-10-03 at 04:53

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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?


Amanda K
A very good sequence you have maintained in the poem. Well-done.

Tough times. A moment to remember. A good poem.