Poets’ Corner: Rosemerry for Mother’s Day

11 May Poets’ Corner: Rosemerry for Mother’s Day

The greatest love is a mother’s; Then comes a dog’s, then comes a sweetheart’s, Polish proverb.

Mother’s Day is always celebrated on the second Sunday in May, so Sunday, May 12, 2019. Though it is not a federal holiday, Mother’s Day is widely celebrated as a special moment to honor all mothers and motherhood.  And there are lots of ways to do that: flowers, breakfast in bed, jewelry, a simple card. Telluride Inside… and Out offers a tribute in the form of two poignant poems by Word Woman Rosemerry Trommer, a mom herself who tends to gifts-wraps love with eloquence. One poem is for her mother; second is for all mothers like herself.

Making Apple Pies with My Mother

We begin by talking for an hour
about the kids, her church, dad’s health,
and how we both cry when we see acts of goodness.
We clean the kitchen. Address one mess
before starting the next. Then we peel apples,
marvel at their size—how much larger
they must be than in the time of Fanny Farmer,
who thinks we might need eight tart apples
for our nine-inch crust. Fanny, even a hundred years later,
you are still synonymous with precision,
organization and good food. And, as I recall,
you, too, practiced your art in your mother’s kitchen.
As it is, seven apples in 2018 are enough
to fill two generous crusts. Oh Fanny,
some things have changed, for instance
this Granny Smith, large as my fist. But some things
are exactly the same. A level teaspoon
is still a level teaspoon. The simplest recipes
are still often the best. And it’s still so good
to make a pie with your mother, talking
about all of life’s loose ends, measuring sugar,
filling the crusts, then cleaning up the mess
as the scent of sweetness touches everything.

Lifting the Camaro

We’ve heard the story of the woman
who lifted the car to save her child,
and though it is hard to believe,

it happens. Faced with saving a life,
we find the hysterical strength
to do what seemingly can’t be done—

I think of those women today,
and I think of my son, trapped beneath
the chassis of teenage torment.

It may not be a two-ton car, but it feels
no less urgent. We save a life in seconds
or we save a life in years—

of course I’d lift it right away
if such a lift were possible.
I’d hold that Chevy up until

he could roll right out from under.
Instead I try lifting other impossible things:
The crush of being misunderstood. The weight

of should. The press of daily surviving.
And I think of those mothers who lift cars.
And I bless them, and keep on trying.