Seasons of Woman

A poem for my mother, my daughter and I

Image by StockSnap from Pixabay

My daughter

is spring.
Prone to sunshine and sudden storms.
Enthusiastic shoots of growth,
both mind and body.
A butterfly, flitting between the flowers
of her interests and her friends.

I

am creeping into autumn
colours burnished, brassy
leaves furling.
Summer days still catching unawares,
as nights draw in early.
Craved comfort spiced with change.

My mother

winding through winter,
still with gifts to give.
Hair frost rimed,
old bones crack like ice.
Spring still fresh in mind
as summer memories fade.

Seasons overlap before they pass
and cycle once again.
From birth to life
to death, rebirth.
We are not yet done.

Letting Her Go