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Emma's Song
My hands aren't white like yours
I muck in the secret soil
Cull Cosmos where they've
overrun my garden give them to a friend
And prune the green ash in the front
Of my old grey house.
My hands are dry and bleed
My knees where they lean
on the iron hard earth are scabby.
You perhaps see the beauty
of my wild English garden in the back
And perhaps you would harvest
the coneflowers
And breath in the fragrance
of flowers that bloom at night.
You see the roses
that I planted for my mother.
The deck with its fresh satin paint
The shining blue-grey walls
Of my little house but note
I removed the old paint with a heat gun
Over the course of several summers
And my uncle helped
He was 78 years old and fell off a ladder
broke a rib
But came back to help again.
The young people wouldn't help
The work was too hard.
And now you see my hands
Are not white like yours.
They're cracked and bleeding
And my knees hurt.
I have worked hard all my life
I have tried to be a good person
I have lived a Christian life
And this is my reward
You see the blossoms in my garden
You see my gingerbread house
Sip your tea and say,
How exquisite
Kenna Mary McKinnon is a senior Canadian woman who's had poetry published in Audience Magazine,
SZ Magazine, BP Magazine, Alberta Caregiver,
Edmonton Senior, and The Western Catholic Reporter amongst others.
Email: Kenna Mary McKinnon
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