Cutting rhubarb in the rain,
the mottled leaves thick with mud
and slugs, I wonder if these plants,
robust now, will stand another
season in this shaded corner.
If not, next spring my husband
will surprise me bearing rhizomes,
and plant them so my garden
will be as my mother's, and
her mother's and, perhaps, all
our mothers' before.
I'll slice the stalks into chunks
for pie, mine has strawberries,
though she says berries ruin
the rhubarb; she makes sauce
and eats from the pot, still warm,
spoon clanking against the sides,
a smile trespassing her face.
Tendering these stalks, making the pie,
heralds me a holder of apron
strings, honoring our history
unmarked with words or trophies,
thus all the more important.
I wonder how my daughter
will grow her rhubarb.
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All these foodie stories and poems incarnated for Michael's Food group has made me hungry. Here, a poem to honor my mother, and hers; so much of my history carries matrilineally, through the foods we prepare...
I enjoy memorial poetry. This one is well done.
I love rhubarb and this piece sings..
Thanks Matt for the read and the *!
I'm glad you enjoy memorial poetry -- my mother does not. Then again, she doesn't like any poetry, but I write about her anyway ;^)
Michael, I love rhubarb too. Let me count the ways... thanks for starting the Food Writes group - yum! Peace...
Love this, Linda, but title should definitely be "Cutting Rhubarb in the Rain"--what a great phrase!
"next spring my husband / will surprise me bearing rhizomes"
Marvellous!
*
Love it. Such great, specific, evocative details. My own mom made rhubarb pie, rhubarb sauce, etc. I love "tendering these stalks".
I like Bill's idea for the title.
Linda, this is a keeper!!!!! I agree with Bill about the title. This is such a luscious poem. Congrats!
Very well done, Linda.
(think would be stronger without last two lines. Generational aspect goes without saying, imo.)
Bill, always honored when you drop by with suggestions for improving -- thanks!
Kathy (evocative!)and D'Arcy (luscious!), thanks for reading and affirming Bill's idea -- much appreciated. Now let's see if I can edit the title...
Yay! And voila! New title. Peace...
I'm the offspring of a long line of rhubarb growers. Hate the stuff myself. Like the poem.
Excellent, Linda. I think the new title is perfect.
Matt, thanks so much for reading and the useful suggestion. I'm reading this out loud with the last two sentences deleted, and it feels unfinished. I think. Though I am not sure the last two lines are right, either. Thank goddess for evolution. Peace...
Christian, thanks! I love how readers can improve a work. Peace...
Jack, I HATED rhubarb when I was a kid, but now, stewed in sugar, poured over vanilla ice cream, or made into a crisp... OMG! Try it again. But I'm pleased you like the poem :^) Peace...
Oh this is very very nice
Thank you Susan -- for the nice comment and the pretty *! Peace...
"a smile trespassing her face" -- awesome. Really lovely piece, Linda.
Thanks so much Susan! My mom really does smile over rhubarb, raspberries, and steamed lobsters. Peace...
Love how everyone, even Jack, has some kind of nostalgic feeling about rhubarb. When I was a kid I picked a stalk then dunked it into a handful of white sugar. Mmmmm.
Just the fact you had rhubarb in the title drew me to your story... and what a fine story it is.
I liked the last two lines - they put a little lump in my throat.
Cathy, thanks for popping by and reading -- and remarking on the nostalgia for rhubarb. Folks love it or hate -- glad you are of the former variety!
Myra, thank you for the fav -- so appreciate it! Peace...
I love this, Linda. From the perfect title to the last line. Wonderful depiction of past, present and future.
Delicious.
*
Michelle, thanks so much for the generous read and * ! peace...