Of Petals and Lineage

 

In the garden of my memories,
three generations bloom-
my mother, a pink magnolia at dusk,
her hands soft as twilight,
her roots deep in ancient soil.

She moved through rooms like prayer,
her hands blessing everything they touched,
her silence teaching me
how to listen to the world's quiet music.

My sister, a sunflower in full blaze,
turning always toward the light,
her laughter spilling gold
across our childhood kitchen.

When she stepped from her bath,
water droplets clinging to her skin like jewels,
I saw our mother's grace reborn-
the same curve of neck,
the same dream-filled eyes
holding whole galaxies within their depths.

And now my daughters-
wild lilies just unfolding,
their small feet pattering
like spring rain on wooden floors.

When I kiss their tiny toes,
I taste the future on my lips,
sweet with possibility.
Their hair, still fine as Cinderella  wishes,
carries the scent of new beginnings.

I am the soil that holds them all,
the dark, rich earth between seasons,
the keeper of these living roots.
I am the rain that nourishes their growth,
the witness to their beauty unfolding
in perfect, imperfect symmetry.

In this garden  of women,
I see myself reflected-
not as a single flower,
but as the whole, living field
where past and future meet
in the sacred, endless now.

And sometimes, in the quiet hours,
I feel the thread continue-
my grandmother's hands in mine,
my great-grandmother's song in my throat,
all the women who came before
whispering through my daughters' laughter.

We are not separate blossoms,
but one endless garden,
planted by time,
watered with tears and joy,
growing toward the same eternal sun.