By Mary McKSchmidt
It was a whimsical thought,
the kind that drifts
like a low-hanging cloud
over a marginal sea
still reeling
from last night’s storm;
the kind that
demands attention–
like the lingering waves
curling, crashing, flattening
the powdery white sand
alongside the unfamiliar road
cutting through
the long and narrow
barrier reef island.
Why not say a prayer for those
memorialized on benches?
it asks,
even before I see
the palm-thatched umbrella
shading a bench
overlooking coastal dunes
of sand and gravel.
Words etched on the back
of the green-slat bench
hard-stop my jog.
Carol Ann McBroom
Mum Artist Best Friend
Stunned, how could I not
sit on that first bench
and ponder the coincidence?
Remember the woman
I’ve called “Mum”
since our relationship reached
a level of profound intimacy,
who is an artist, best friend, but
whose name is not
Carol Ann McBroom?
How could I not
pray for both mothers
and their children?
personalize every bench
that followed,
grateful
for that one curious thought
that changed how I think
about strangers?
Oh what joy, whimsical thoughts! Welcome!
Mary
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