In the Small Yard
Her high-terraced house was
her whole world.
Letting in the morning air,
she lingered by the window,
watching her children play
in the small yard.
She liked
to see them hang upside down
on the branches of the
great white pine.
Letting in the morning air,
she lingered by the window.
When she washed her
children for bed,
she could hear the robins
singing
on the branches of the
great white pine.
It was still daylight when
she tucked them in,
the cotton sheets just down
from the line.
She could hear the robins
singing.
She
looked deep into their faces
with their features of
immeasurable beauty,
the cotton sheets just down
from the line.
At times, when she was overwhelmed with work,
she kept before her mind
the faces of her children
with their features of
immeasurable beauty.
Though she often worked
herself into a sweat,
she did not lose herself in
the tumult of chores.
She kept before her mind
the faces of her children.
Down on her knees on the
hard floor,
swashing ammonia and water
into every corner,
she did not lose herself in
the tumult of chores.
Though at times when she
was alone in the house,
she must have known hours
of isolation,
swashing ammonia and water
into every corner.
With her
husband coming home late and
with no one else to talk
to,
she must have known hours
of isolation.
Yet
coming from the cellar, she exulted in the light
in the bright, blooming
backyard,
with no one else to talk
to.
Pinning
up the wet wash, she was fascinated
with the sunlight flicking
on and off
in the bright, blooming
backyard.
Another time, she turned
her chair to face the roses,
drinking her cup of coffee
out back,
with the sunlight flicking
on and off.
She gloried in the total
effect of their color,
remembering roses were her
mother's favorite flower,
drinking her cup of coffee
out back.
She snipped their stems and
held them by their ends,
careful to notice where the
thorns were,
remembering roses were her
mother's favorite flower.
And she arranged the blooms
in an aqua bowl,
painting the flowers with
quick, deft strokes,
careful to notice where the
thorns were.
She worked late into the
afternoon,
when it was time for her to
think about the supper,
painting the flowers with
quick, deft strokes.
Years
later, my mother had my father hang the oil
inspired by the roses that
grew against the garage,
when it was time for her to
think about the supper.
The
painted flowers brought her back to a time when
she used to sit at the
kitchen window,
inspired by the roses that
grew against the garage.
As a mother with young
children,
her high-terraced house was
her whole world.
She used to sit at the
kitchen window,
watching her children play
in the small yard.
Ann Gilligan Bond has always enjoyed writing poems, particularly
using forms such as the pantoum, the sestina, and the terzanelle. After ten
years of work, she recently completed a novel set in Ireland, Sighting at
Tinnacurragh, which includes three poems. Much of her life has been spent
doing artwork, especially watercolor landscapes. For the last sixteen years she
has played the violin with the Waltham Philharmonic Orchestra. She has a Master's
degree in English and has taught high school English and art.
