Mimic

He copies everything I do now.

From my workings in the kitchen,

He will make me a cake of Cheerios and Wheat Chex.

From my wrapping of gifts,

He throws his blanket over my vacuum cleaner,

And says "Mommy, I got you a present!"

From my scolding euphemisms,

He will frown, one eyebrow arched

and tell me he is not happy with me.

And from my mouth he steals the curse words

That accidently slip out,

Singing "Damn it, damn it!" from the backseat.

Yet perhaps the best mimic which melts my mother's heart,

Is when he presses his nose against my nose,

Tiny hands holding my face.

He kisses my nose, my cheeks, and my scarred, lined forehead.

He studies me, and says,

"Mommy? You happy now?"

 

Catherine Schmidt    

Horizons

She faltered in her willingness,
bathed in her indignation, 
she stumbled, and fell.
She rose to her knees, 
broken and bloody, 
reeling from feminine failings. 
Then she stood,
eyes fixed on the horizon,
clothed in newfound determination,
undaunted, she carried on.

Catherine Schmidt

Transplant

A flower can only grow so long

In a seedling pot

As roots struggle against the limits

They compact; wither and perish.

So the flower must be transplanted,

Or it will fade back into the soil.

I will not wither anymore.

I will transplant myself.

I will be something bigger,

And bloom without you.

 

Catherine Schmidt

The Flower Recipe

In the galvanized tin bucket I put

One part bone meal, one cup soil

three cups of lovely black compost,

And fold it all together.

I place the bulbs, sift the mixture in,

And tenderly pat the soil.

"Grow," my soul whispers,

Bring forth the tender green spikes

Which will reach towards the sun,

And bloom in vibrant appreciation

Of my labors.

 

Catherine Schmidt