A Letter From Home

I went looking for a poem about July, specifically a poem by Mary Oliver about July. Instead I found this poem of her's which makes me think so much of my Mom that I ache. I wish I had saved more of my Mother's letters to me over the years, but they were of everyday happenings - nothing 'important' enough to save. The poem is about a garden in autumn; the picture is of my mother in summer with her garden in the background.

A Letter From Home (By Mary Oliver)

She sends me news of blue jays, frost,
Of stars and now the harvest moon
That rides above the stricken hills.
Lightly, she speaks of cold, of pain,
And lists what is already lost.
Here where my life seems hard and slow,
I read of glowing melons piled
Beside the door, and baskets filled
With fennel, rosemary and dill,
While all she could not gather in
Or hid in leaves, grow black and falls.
Here where my life seems hard and strange,
I read her wild excitement when
Stars climb, frost comes, and blue jays sing.
The broken year will make no change
Upon her wise and whirling heart; -
She knows how people always plan
To live their lives, and never do.
She will not tell me if she cries.

I touch the crosses by her name;
I fold the pages as I rise,
And tip the envelope, from which
Drift scraps of borage, woodbine, rue.

All the years I lived a distance away from her, Mom and I exchanged letters. Oh, there were some phone calls, but they "ran up our phone bills" so those were saved for immediate news. Mom was still gardening when I moved 'back home'. She kept her hoe sharpened - weeds didn't stand a chance.  

I know how much of my knowledge came from her and her 'wise and whirling heart'.