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.....flowers,meadows,mountains,sky,wind,birds,fly,sun,time,blazing.

No one ever comes here anymore, no more time to spend, no flowers to bring.
My children have forgotten all the songs I never had time to help them sing.
I guess it is my own fault for not spending the time to say the things I should have said.
Or been there when I knew they needed me for a scraped knee, or a bump on the head.
They say that you regret the minutes you miss in your child's life, but I thought I knew better.
But when they left the house, they ran fast, and never stopped looked back, or wrote a letter.
I should have shown them all the love I held inside, I never thought they would stop loving me.
I guess I could blame my parents, I had no idea that they would not believe what they couldn't see.

So now I rest for all eternity in this meadow, flowers for my neighbors that I never met.
While I lay here, and try and remember all those moments I swore I would never forget.
I pushed them hard in whatever they did, but they knew I was proud, no need to say.
I should not have to show how I really felt, they knew that was not my way.
But in my later years I saw, as each one walked through the door, that I may not be right.
I taught them well to never say, I taught them to stand alone, I taught them to stand and fight.
So now my words are only those that stand above me carved in stone.
And now I realize after all this time, that now it is I that stand alone.

I should have taught them to reach for the mountains, to grab on real tight.
It would have been easy to tell them they could do anything, and it would always be right.
I could have stopped for just one minute to tell them how proud I was to share.
Instead of always telling them they could have done better and acting like I didn't care.
It should have been easy for me to say what they wanted to hear.
It wasn't that I didn't boast, but I would stop whenever they got near.
It could have been easy, and they may not have wandered so far.
I could have held them close and helped them wish on every star.

But now they are spread across the country, doing well, each reaching for the sky.
I thought I had all the time in the world, but when I turned around it had just flown by.
One minute they were standing before me, asking a million questions plus one.
Then they were gone, no one standing there, no one to ask what was next to be done.
I tried to keep one or two under my thumb , but I guess I taught them too well.
Now there is no one left at the house to hear me no matter how much I yell.
All those voices from the other room are now, just a silence that rings without a sound.
Now there is only silence here as the children are grown and don't come around.

The old house shifts with every wind that blows, and I know they each have their own life.
But after all the years of being in the center of it all, this silence cuts like a knife.
Why after all these years does the silence seem so loud?
Do they really think after all these year, I was not proud?
I guess I could have done much better than this.
But they have done so very well, this you must admit.
They stand on their own feet, this I helped them face.
I had to get them to see themselves, to find their own place.

They can soar like a bird in flight, or go on even higher.
Everyone can make mistakes, and sometimes get burned by the fire.
But now they know they will survive, like phoenix from the flame.
And they can grumble how they want, and I will take the blame.
But they should know I taught them well, and they are all so bright.
And I know now, that they will be just fine, and everything will be alright.
They may regret that I never spoke these words for all to hear.
But maybe one day they will find a way to keep my words near.

The words not spoken might be just the push they need to attempt for them to fly.
They might work harder to accomplish more, and know they can reach the sky.
I may not have said in so many words, but I was always there.
Pushing them to do their best and trying to be fair.
I was there to push them further, to push them to the limits and more.
And God knows in retrospect they can hardly call their childhood a bore.
Each one had their own ideas, of that I can be sure.
And all those million questions they had for me to endure.

My life was never boring once, no sun could ever outshine each one.
They were the smartest and the brightest and constantly were fun.
It is harder to remember the younger times, especially when you get older.
You don't always recall the giggle times, or when you felt much bolder.
Time wrestles changes you would rather not see.
And alterations to what you thought you would be.
I had to watch the smiles fade, and questions stopped, and soon there was not any.
The face of a child was replaced by an adult, and my thoughts were not worth a penny.

It seems that time has passed us by, and I hope there is one that will explain to the rest.
How my words never got spoken, but maybe they will see I did what I thought was best.
I think it was easier to handle the childish questions, or the quandry about a rule.
What was the right move for that piece on the board, or can they sit and play school.
Do they have to practice the piano, or can they go play in the rain.
Why is the sky blue, or who picked the colors for the candy cane.
Can you look at this paper for me, do you like the pictures I make.
Will the tree in the front hold me, or can I have a piece of cake.

Forever running amuck in the summers in the blazing heat.
You would think for hours on end, by dawn they would be beat.
But no, there was always more to do, can we go for a swim?
The pool is open for a few more hours, it doesn't close til ten.
So off they went and I would study, a few hours with barely a peep.
Until the strike of midnight, and then in the kitchen they would creep.
But they grew up and went away, and I barely saw them come through the door.
And now I am gone, and they stay away, I guess I should have said things more.

But now it might be too late.

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There is this tendency to think that if you could only find the magic way, then you could become a poet. "Tell me how to become a poet. Tell me what to do" . . . What makes you a poet is a gift for language, an ability to see into the heart of things, and an ability to deal with important unconscious material. When all these things come together, you're a poet. But there isn't one little gimmick that makes you a poet. There isn't any formula for it. -- Erica Jong

To write a poem you must have a streak of arrogance - not in real life I hope. In real life try to be nice. It will save you a hell of a lot of trouble and leave you more free time to write. -- Richard Hugo