Poets’ Corner: Rosemerry Gift Wraps Three for Mother’s Day for Mom, Daughter & Son

09 May Poets’ Corner: Rosemerry Gift Wraps Three for Mother’s Day for Mom, Daughter & Son

Mother’s Day was first suggested in 1872 by Julia Ward Howe (who wrote the words to the “Battle Hymn of the Republic”) as a day dedicated to peace.

In 1907, Philadelphian Ana Jarvis began a campaign to establish a national Mother’s Day. She persuaded her mother’s church in Grafton, W.V. to celebrate Mother’s Day on the second anniversary of her mother’s death, the second Sunday of May.

After establishing Mother’s Day in Philadelphia, Ana Jarvis and her supporters wrote to ministers, businessman, and politicians around the U.S. promoting the idea of a national Mother’s Day. They were successful and, by 1911, Mother’s Day was celebrated in almost every state.

In 1914, President Woodrow Wilson proclaimed Mother’s Day a national holiday.

Mothering cakes. Flowers. Chocolate. Things in big boxes. Things in small boxes (even better). Telluride Inside… and Out offers a simple tribute in the form of three poignant poems by Word Woman Rosemerry Trommer, a mom who gifts-wraps her love with eloquence. 

(Rosemerry’s latest books of poetry, “The Unfolding” and “All the Honey” are available on Rosemerry’s website.)

Preserving Sweetness (for her Mom)

The whole house smelled
of ripening then the day mom
made apples into sauce.
The heat from the stove
made the small kitchen
swelter, and the autumn air
almost shined with the bright
scent of Jonathan, Pippin,
Winesap, Cortland.
Her arms were strong then,
straining to push the blushing
pink mash through the sieve,
slow and stiff with the effort.
Perhaps there is a language
somewhere that has a word
for this: the way something sweet
can linger, how it flows over,
around and through the body
like the cidery scent of apples
till it lodges itself in the memory.
Oh Mama, I want to serve this
sweetness to you now,
the memory of you stirring
with two good, strong arms,
the way you put all of who you were
into the smallest of acts,
how fifty years later,
what you did that one afternoon
still matters.

—Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer, from The Unfolding (Wildhouse Publishing, 2024)

I Live for This Moment, (I Live for This Moment,

when my daughter stumbles
sleepy-eyed from her room
and no matter what I’m doing,
I stop and move to the corner
of the couch so she can settle
her whole weight on me.
Maybe we speak of dreams.
Maybe we converse with the cat.
Maybe we plan the day.
Maybe we say nothing at all.
All that matters is that
she is close and I nuzzle my face
into her hair and wrap an arm
around her chest and know
this is the beginning of everything,
the seed, the cosmic swirl,
the headline that’s never written.
To foster one moment of trust
and love is to belong
to a crucial revolution.
So vital, how we hold each other.
What happens everywhere
starts right here.

—Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer, from The Unfolding (Wildhouse Poetry, 2024)

I Live for This Moment, (for her daughter)

when my daughter stumbles
sleepy-eyed from her room
and no matter what I’m doing,
I stop and move to the corner
of the couch so she can settle
her whole weight on me.
Maybe we speak of dreams.
Maybe we converse with the cat.
Maybe we plan the day.
Maybe we say nothing at all.
All that matters is that
she is close and I nuzzle my face
into her hair and wrap an arm
around her chest and know
this is the beginning of everything,
the seed, the cosmic swirl,
the headline that’s never written.
To foster one moment of trust
and love is to belong
to a crucial revolution.
So vital, how we hold each other.
What happens everywhere
starts right here.

—Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer, from The Unfolding (Wildhouse Poetry, 2024)

May Again

May again, and the lilac buds

are swelling and the apple leaves

are on the verge of unfurling

and it’s almost Mother’s Day.

The geese have arrived,

and the hummingbirds weave

and the grosbeaks swarm the feeder.

On the counter, the succulents

you gave me two years ago

have doubled in size.

I treasure them beyond

their thick leaves—

treasure, more, perhaps,
their roots.

I am well aware
that although you are gone

I am no less your mom.

I want to praise what is infinite,

which I am best taught

through what doesn’t last.

What doesn’t last:
the body, the bloom,

the boy, the blood.

What lasts forever:

the growing,
the breaking open,

the winging toward love.