~ Mustard Weed ~

Washing dishes in the kitchen, on a breezy summer day.
Two little boys pick flowers, in a field not far away.
Rushing home with grubby hands, full of Mustard Weed,
Growing wild on Johnson’s farm, as far as eyes can see.

Smiling lips stretched cross the empty spaces in their grins,
A look that said, “we love you Mom”, hearts full right to the brim.
Handing forth the Mustard Weed, clenched in chubby fists,
Mother knelt down tenderly, to give each son a kiss.

Mother held her breath, as not to smell the putrid weed,
Then proudly used her favorite vase and prayed they’d turn to seed.
They graced the kitchen table, bright and cheerful, smelly too,
Until they finally shriveled up and out the door they flew.

The kitchen didn’t seem so warm and friendly as before,
When the beautiful Mustard Weed, added cheer to the décor,
A memory to savor, at my leisure, just for fun,
A gift of life’s sweet moments, given free to everyone.

Imprinted on my heart, to reflect upon through time,
A gift that keeps on giving, when I bring this gift to mind.
Private gifts; you might say, meant for me alone to see,
Like my children picking flowers, in a field of Mustard Weed.

COPYRIGHT©2004 BONNIE TORRENTE