The Yellow Blooms

of my childhood

were spontaneous and bright

like my mother.

She pointed them out each day on the way to school:

for-syth-i-a

she whispered,

like the words of a spell

passed on between

generations of women.

It took me years to remember it

but now it’s etched in my mind like a scar.

Today my mother sits beside me, asleep in the

pew while

the Poet Laureate recites a poem

about forsythias.

I reach for my mothers’ hand,

a delicate blossom,

and whisper,

thank you.