Thursday, April 13, 2006


For my mother...

An Observation
True gardeners cannot bear a glove
Between the sure touch and the tender root,

Must let their hands grow knotted as they move

With a rough sensitivity about
Under the earth, between
the rock and shoot,
Never to bruise or wound the hidden fruit.
And so I watched my mother's hands grow scarred,
She who could heal the wounded plant or friend

With the same vulnerable yet rigorous love;

I minded once to see her beauty gnarled,

But now her truth is given me to live,

As I learn for myself we must be hard
To move among the tender with an open hand,

And to stay sensitive up to the end

Pay with some toughness for a gentle world.

by May Sarton

Posted via web from marielenora's posterous

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