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. Ronnie says

    Absolutely awesome!

    1. 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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