Mother’s Lonely Paintbrushes

I created all things.

I gave the cat his deep green eyes. I made them match the color of fern leaves so I would never forget the shade. I made shade for him to sleep in, too. I made daffodils and poppy seeds.

I put dew on the tips of the flower petals each morning, just to take your breath away. I know what beauty is. And I want to share it.

I painted a rainbow in the garden. I put crunchy stones along the walkway so the butterflies would hear you coming and wouldn’t be startled. I called to the whippoorwills to stand at attention, and I asked the trees to stand taller.

The frog pond is my favorite. The lily pads, the cat-o’-nine-tails. I was in a good mood when I made those. And I tucked my deepest secrets into each of the seed pods for safekeeping.

I don’t have much left to do here though. I can’t keep making beautiful things to watch them be destroyed. I’m tired, and disappointed.

I can only yell so loudly and only for so long.

Yelling doesn’t work anyway; we all know that.

My long brown hair will cover the plants when they die.

My white eyelet skirt will drape the trees that fall.

My hands will cup the dying sun,

and I’ll lay it deep inside the frozen volcanoes.

Who knows? Maybe someday, in the future, another generation will return and find a way to recover it all. I can wait. I’m very patient when I need to be.

I know that I can’t force lessons to be learned. It must come to them. And people learn best from their mistakes.

The planet will die.

The people will leave.

I’ll sweep up the dust

and I’ll get ready to plant again when the time comes.

In the meantime, my swirling heart rains love drops on the parched fields.

My sun-drenched eyelashes form trellises of greenery framing the mountains like antiques.

My calloused fingertips scratch jagged scars along the desert’s paranoia.

I can keep myself busy.

It’s just not the same without company.