The Silent Answer

Mother you rest,
buried beneath Spring’s soil
in your Irish lace with hands clasped.

And I stand above you
holding on to your memory
and grace.

But thoughts
twist and spiral
like the twines and shoots
of your wisteria
that stubbornly refuse to bloom
in your absence,
inherently adapting to nature.

Looking for answers
my eyes felt like
arms and open palms
heaving upward, reaching
to God—

Momma, did you make it to the other side?

Receiving a breeze in stillness
clouds shift in silent sympathy
bowing towards
a vision of a double rainbow.

And this vociferous
voice of colors
renounces my grief,
to shades,
other than gray.

In honor of  My Mother -
Flora Rondeau
June 10, 1930 - April 7, 2005
 
(revised shapes of grief)