Out for a walk along the back lane headed home (when you live on a farm you avoid the highway), I stop near the old railway line and see, at a distance, she’s walking in my direction wearing that purple fleece and there will be a gingham kerchief around her neck to keep the chill away this time of year.
Down the hill, half way between us bordering a strip of woods where a small creek runs through, a lone maple burns crimson as it always does, the first to change – but I’d almost forgotten Mom’s birthday was today.
for my mother born Sept. 15, 1923
Thanks for posting my poem, dear Crone x