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Daffodils For Mom
It was in the spring of my youth and the sight of daffodils now fill my mind.
It was memories of woods and fields and the sweet smell of adventure to find.
It was of this that I thought about mom today, and that of a time long ago from the past.
I thought about how on that spring day she made me feel, and how in my heart it will forever last.
If I would venture to say of this day I was probably about the age of nine, maybe ten.
I recall the air was crisp and the sky was clear; there was a light chill from a northwest wind.
I was elated in the discovering new worlds all whilst conquering old ones in my mind.
Through the creeks and streams I had trod, stopping only to explore this world divine.
The sun was my watch, but it was more my stomach than the sun that said its lunchtime.
I knew that I had better hurry over the fields and down the way to get back home.
For if I was late for lunch my mom would surely without doubt whip me to the bone.
So to the east I did run as fast as I could, I then turned a little north and beneath a tree I stopped to rest.
Sharp pangs tore up and down my side I was going to be late and no answer would I have when mom asked.
I leaned hard against the tree, I panted and heaved, and it was then that I saw the daffodils beneath an old hickory tree.
Self preservation quickly kicked in, as I began to gather one daffodil after another again and again.
With my bouquet of flowers gripped tightly now in my small hand I made my way the rest of the way home.
With the flowers hidden behind my back I walked into the kitchen where my mom stood.
She was finishing up making sandwiches and only asked was I hungry and where had I been.
It was then that I held out the flowers with their yellow hues, I looked at her and said these are for you mom, I sure do love you.
She smiled a smile so big that I can still see it today; she gave me a hug and a kiss and said I love you too.
Mom has been gone now five years or more, and every now and then I feel she is closer than ever before.
Oh these yellow daffodils galore and the country dreams of a little boy. Life is no matter what comes our way is truly good.
J. Allen Wilson © 8/2007
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| Reviewed by m j hollingshead |
8/10/2007 |
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| lovely work |
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| Reviewed by Barbara Smith |
8/9/2007 |
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| Allen, what a trip full of images and a wonderfully told story. It grabbed at my soul and made me glad to have had children a lot like you. This is a great tribute to your Mother and is heart rendering and spoken in a voice of sincere love for your Mother. You drew me in on the very first line and kept my attention throughout this writing. |
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| Reviewed by Taylor Ryan |
8/9/2007 |
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Oh my gosh Allen, you took me so many places with this one...from the back yard of a friend's house when I was about 8 with a yard that stretched as far downhill as the eye could see until the river gobbled it up. It was a sea of yellow waves and daffodils were my favorite. But that sight never touched me the way my little sons did when they would vanish into the woods and with their own little hands would bring me boquets of wildflowers and weeds.
Words help us all to remember in one way or another. This is to be cherished.
Love,
Taylor |
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| Reviewed by Joyce Bowling |
8/9/2007 |
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I sat at my desk during lunch after just checking my blood pressure, which was a little higher than I wanted it to be...but while reading this in the quiet of my classroom, I felt a sense of peace sweep over me...a comfortable and wonderful feeling of love, sincerity, and the love of a son...I recall memories such as these from my own son who is now married with his own family...family is such a special blessing...one day when we all meet in heaven...what a reunion we shall have! Beautiful...thank you my friend for such a beautiful and heartfelt write!
Blessings,
Joyce B. |
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| Reviewed by Ed Matlack |
8/9/2007 |
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| A wonderful memory and tribute to your mom...she is still beaming over you I am sure...Ed |
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| Reviewed by Anna Tulachan |
8/9/2007 |
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| A very beautiful tribute & memory. Lovely desciption and imagery. A very sweet offering- both the poem and the daffodils. |
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