A Poem For Mother’s Day


I heard a poem read on the Writer’s Almanac yesterday and it seemed so poignant to my life. It’s funny how things seem to float into our lives just when we need them. Recently it feels as though I have been having difficult relationships with past and current family members of mine. The communication lines are breaking down and every attempted discussion seems to break down into some sort of argument. This is never what I intend and I am not usually doing the arguing. Mean words have been said to me as of late by more folks than I would like to mention. Some that should still be considered close and one that once was very near and dear. Another me might have taken all this to heart and become very depressed or self-blaming. And the fact that Mother’s Day is tomorrow, my sadness would have been huge. But this is a new me and I am handling it all with strength and wisdom. The poem I am going to share meant so much. It’s amazing to me how someone can  so perfectly express the things I am feeling in just a short piece, with simple words strung together! But then, that is the beauty of good writing. Happy Mother’s Day.

The Land of Beginning Again

by Louisa Fletcher

I wish that there were some wonderful place
In the Land of Beginning Again.
Where all our mistakes and all our heartaches
And all of our poor selfish grief
Could be dropped like a shabby old coat at the door
and never put on again.
I wish we could come on it all unaware,
Like the hunter who finds a lost trail;
And I wish that the one whom our blindness had done
The greatest injustice of all
Could be there at the gates
like an old friend that waits
For the comrade he’s gladdest to hail.
We would find all the things we intended to do
But forgot, and remembered too late,
Little praises unspoken, little promises broken,
And all the thousand and one
Little duties neglected that might have perfected
The day for one less fortunate.
It wouldn’t be possible not to be kind
In the Land of Beginning Again,
And the ones we misjudged
and the ones whom we grudged
their moments of victory here,
Would find in the grasp of our loving hand-clasp
More than penitent lips could explain…
So I wish that there were some wonderful place
Called the Land of Beginning Again,
Where all our mistakes and all our heartaches,
And all of our poor selfish grief
Could be dropped like a shabby old coat at the door
And never put on again.

 

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