The grand-daddy gray beard’s blooms,
snow-white against a green-leafed pad,
each year made lacy white bouquets
and caused me to remember Dad.
How he had found the small ash tree
and Mama spoke as to kid,
“You can’t transplant when in full bloom,”
but that’s just what my daddy did.
And then the bush thrived years to bloom
each spring when all things new
burst forth as red, red robins sang
when skies shone rain-washed blue.
The gray-beard weathered winter ice
the day my daddy died,
because my mama cried.
Then in the spring she, too, took sick
and soon she went away
and as they closed the casket lid,
it seemed I heard her say.
“You can’t transplant when in full bloom.”
But that is what was done
and now the flowers in God’s Bouquet
out-number the rays of the sun.
© 2013 Freeda Baker Nichols
- Photo credit: Flowering ash tree Wikipedia (Zemanta)