A Green Thumb

Mother carried her silver pail,

Gliding, never spilling a drop.
She stepped into a clearing
and her dandelion children crowded around her.
Water me first mama,
me first.
Their voices raspy
they begged, whined, cried, screeched
She held her breath as she looked at them
solemn as a statue,
she stepped around them,
hiding the pain of ignoring her children
but her grandfather came first.

An enormous oak, bark worn down,
scars from vandals
parts of bark were black as coal from fires.

She stared,
reminiscing how she sat there as a child,
her grandfather read her stories until she fell asleep.
He protected her from harm,
made sure she was comfortable.
she tilted the pail and watered his ancient roots,

as the mud softened

she turned away.

She quickened her pace

going to mother, a rosebush.
She took the shears, rusted and caked with dirt

and trimmed the dead vines.
cutting her arm on the thorns,
the lines of blood rising from underneath the skin,

”Your children are spoiled weeds.
You’re an awful mother.”
She looked at her mother,
beautiful flowers bloomed,
bright red, like a shade of lipstick.
She watered the ground,
and sighed deeply.

Her children came last,
they hungrily drank the water,
they lapped up every last droplet,
once they were done

their eyes focused on her

Left with nothing, they turned away.

Leaving the mother

with her empty pail