My Mother's Heart

ife£*·¦y, ' «w . H Arbutus, Trailing Flower, I search for you where leather green leaves ruck the snow in March beneath bare branched oaks, its buds blushing under sun's courting. Ring your belled heads for me. trail your incense along chill winds from vines still green in crystalled snow. Give me an omen to banish a bleak heart's winter. Arbutus, trail me to the passion of your wedding bouquet. —Margaret D. Kirkland My Mother's Quilt Full of eighth-grade geometry and Picasso colors, my Mother's quilt hangs on the wall, its stitches holding history together. My Mother's Heart My years should be more tolerant these days. They should see the soft ways of my mother's heart, and mourn the sparrow's death. —Wayne Hogan —Wayne Hogan 84 ...