The thrift shop is packed with treasures
and I spy the Easter lilies… flat in a basket
on the glass top of a lighted cabinet.
They’ve been there for days, still
looking dew kissed, shivering white,
real, but for their lack of fragrance
Dare I touch one? Thick fingers
on silky surfaces leave traces
of tears, the wistful tears
for a perfect mother who no longer
A polished mother who
used to nurture fragile pansies,
now declines scattered tulip petals.
Tulip petals, lipstick red,
would clutter her floor and her mind.
My mother, a mother who weeded
her garden in Sunday clothes,
breathless at the hint
of the first crocus, at the sight
of her roses’ resurrection,
now rejects the flourishing freesia.
But, the perfect Easter lilies,
in shimmering silk, bloom forever young,
flawless, fragrance free, phony.
This new mother will love them.
Bev Fesharaki is an educator/poet who works with young poets to get and give inspiration. Her work has been published in a number of journals including Bangalore Review, MORIA, and Vermillion and in an anthology, “Women Writing: On The Edge of Dark and Light.” She lives and writes by the water in Mukilteo, Washington.