Tin Buckets


Mother, today, leaning against

our yellow garage I never used
my pointer finger to chip at
paint, but I stared at our old
pear tree –
Did you see me Mother?

I stared at our old pear tree
crying as rain coated fur
coats – pears strewn about
the lawn – ants and worms
lived inside
Were you there Mother?
No one saves bruised fruit
or has time to cut away a
rotten spot – like Grandma.
Are you with Grandma?
You remember Grandma
took care of bruised fruit
tossed scraps from her second
floor window – of our city flat,
to feed blackbirds.

Perhaps you are back in Middle?

Those maple trees – you’d remember
growing back home, in your town –
“Middle” – Mother always
said “Middle” not Middle Granville
a place near the border of Vermont –
Mother, bet your proud of those Maples. . .

Maple trees – crying like the pear tree,
but into thin tin buckets – buckets
attached to mighty strong trunks –
tin buckets filled with maple syrup.

Mother, I know you can see me.

I bet all those trees with buckets
were glad to see you home –
you climbed their limbs – you tied
tin to their trunks – you hid beneath
a Maple tree like a piece of scorned

Mother, you are not there – on the crest
gazing over rusted train tracks, tracks
twisting around raised stones – tracks
near your brother’s bar – you’re not
resting near trees crying into buckets

You see Mother – now you can fly.

We know resting in peace wasn’t your

style – I believe you hear me as I
talk out loud – you see – I know you
are right here! You told me so. . .
Remember, “I’ll haunt you till the
day you die.” Then laughed!
I believe you protect me…

Remember when you turned all the
fans on; tears ran down our wall –
when pencils were tossed – pictures
fell – and now you’re moving glasses.
You hear me – you hear me when
I talk.

Mother, why did you touch his face?

I’m pleased – you made him believe
you are watching over us –
You see me, hear me, listen to all my
words and answer in your own way.

Mother – yes we believe.

The day we placed a wreath at your
grave – knee deep in snow, we noticed
snow inside tin buckets –
Did you notice too?

We talked about the other side ever
since I could remember – telling me of
my birth, all those who died before you,
greeting you – we talked as I grew –
I grew to understand, and we talked
when you were dying.

You’re right here watching me as I
tell others!

But why not touch my face?

Mother, you can fly over our pear
tree and watch scraps of food fed
to black birds, and touch faces in
night – guide us in daylight.

So fly Mother, fly near the border
where slate resembles slabs of
fudge – where rocks fall into streams
where maples do cry into buckets,
and your talking with all your friends
now resting on the crest.

Fly – Fly – guide us all with your

Nancy Duci Denofio (c)2011 allrightsreserved

  1. Avatar of Ronnie
    Ronnie says

    Absolutely awesome!

    1. Avatar of Nancy Duci Denofio
      Nancy Duci Denofio says

      Thanks so much, this is really a true view of my life outside in and around two cities but combining material things. Nancy

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