AlvernoINK Spring / Fall 2017 - Page 102

The Seed

My mother was frivolous while my father sowed.

Her eyes lit at the sound of a cash register’s song.

His eyes burned at black lace performing coyly.

Green paper flutters around my mother as if leaves were swirling inside a tornado.

Trapped inside the vibrant hues of silks, satin and wool, she was doomed.

Carelessly planting, not once considering the repercussions, does my father go.

Meeting by chance, loose wallet lips and wild ambition tie themselves together.

Through the dance as old as time, does a seed plant itself.

My mother was the flower while my father was the bee.

Never satisfied, does he leave.

Leaving behind his unwanted seed.

My mother foolishly tried to make amends for his mistakes,

but left hers undone.

Never once admitting she made any.

The well read flower spreads knowledge to those who are keen to listen.

As the seed reaches out, her hand is slapped.

Sacred knowledge is appraised.

For the flower cherishes it so.

The seed is left knowing there is no tutelage for her.

Through time, does the flower wilt.

Shedding her petals, agony lingers.

Leaving behind pain, she flies thoughtlessly.

Forgetting she was no longer alone.

Green papers stop soaring around her, for the glimmers of gold are no longer hers alone.