Sunshine After Rain

My Mother brings me Sweet Williams wrapped in brown paper.

The sunlight offers a gift of green silence. A gentle, womb of space.
I take her offerings, both the wrapped and the unwrapped.

And show the brown eyed girl how to cut stems, peal leaves and arrange blooms in ice clear glass.

Once submerged wilting petals revive almost instantly.

So do I.

Words, unguarded somehow escape like the sudden dash of light within a writhing cloud.

 Unnamed spaces grace long ago, sun draped days.

 Held tight for years. Like a bud.

In the sunlight, her hair is almost pure white. She is getting old now. I notice more and more, the slowing movement. The squinting eyes in search of beloved child smiles.

And in this space of both sunlight and rain I let go. And I embrace. And both feel equally good and right.