An Early Snow
The morning of the first snow,
an early snow,
is glorious.
The colors still claim their place
on the stage
relishing their curtain call.
Brilliant reds and golds
dolloped with cold white frosting
reluctant to yield the spotlight.
Early? What is early? Winter huffs
as she bursts into the room
and sits heavy where she pleases.
Early or just right;
it is not for me to say.
Ready or not.
The ground is frozen through
while the river laps freely
round snow-capped stones.
Geese honk wildly overhead
delighted in the icy wind,
celebrating.
A randomness has settled itself
along with the early snow.
A tease. A sleight of hand.
With care, I set each step,
aware of the precarious path,
dazed by the morning's brilliance.
Too early or too late;
it is not for me to say.
Winter will have her way.
I spend the morning of the first snow,
an early snow,
at my mother’s bedside.
Is waiting what's hardest or
the abrupt arrival, like an early snow,
of both guilt and helplessness.
Either way,
the wind sings,
Winter will come.
The sharp cold
reminds me
that I am alive.
The perfection
is God's proof
that I am not forgotten,
The morning of the first snow,
an early snow,
is glorious.
(November 2018)
The First Birthday After
It is gray and rainy on the last day, the day before my birthday.
The mist fills me with a sadness I can’t grasp.
How will I unfurl this day?
Will I rip the paper from the package in excited delight?
Or will I curl up under the warmth of my blanket and hide a while longer?
For the briefest of moments, I start to dial my mother.
And then I remember.
(February 2019)
The first poem was written a few days before my mother died. It came to me as I walked from a short-term rental in Naperville, Illinois, near my childhood home, to the nursing home. There is a path through a field by the river, along which I walked daily for the last month of her life, from my temporary home to hers. I tried to read it to her, but by that time, she wasn’t able to respond. I read it at her graveside, then put it away. I reworked it now for this publication.
I found the second poem on my computer, dated three months later, the day before my birthday. I have no recollection of writing it. I still think to call my mother at times, though she’s been gone for nearly seven years. We spoke often, every few days, and always about anything of importance or just plain fun. How lucky am I!
In honor of my mother, Annette Ward, and all the wonderful mothers, with us in person or in our hearts. Happy Mother’s Day.
Thanks, as always, for being here. And remember. . .
Life is short. Read fast.
From one lover of the written word to another,
With love,
Jayne
Coming July 8, 2025! Bottom of the Breath is the story of a woman catapulted from her tranquil life on the Florida panhandle onto a cross-country road trip with her recently estranged husband. She must outrun a hurricane, digest a shocking, decades-old family secret, and come to terms with her own pain-filled past. Laced with mysticism and set among the majesty of Sedona and the Grand Canyon, the novel explores the power of friendship, the importance of forgiveness, and the vital need to create a future that embraces the past.
My mom has been gone for nearly 11 years and I still think…Oh, I need to ask mom that. Thank you Jayne.😌
Loved the echoing lines in the snow poem.
And my mother's been gone over ten years and I still think I'll just call her. Hugs.