The Wooden Urn with Carved Daisies by Jean Biegun

Mother began as a tidy person,
hair primped just so for Sundays,
neck scarves tied according to photos
in her high school Home Ec book.

She’d rip out every crooked seam
we sewed on the treadle Singer,
scrubbed our hair three times with kerosene
when we brought home nits,
ironed even the sheets though the wind
flattened them pretty well on the line.

The day young Mel left for Viet Nam,
she washed every window including the cupola,
the high-up little room we never went to:
always told us cleaning something
was the start to fixing everything.

When he came home in a casket,
she let the flower beds go first,
and the daisies spread out helter-skelter.

Took years before her vegetable rows
came back somewhat straight,
for her skirt pleats to be almost crisp.
It was like mud had won out.

While the tumor did its slow dance
(borderline the word during that long turn),
she’d go to the garden,
sit on her short stool and sift the loosened
soil through her fingers.
No gloves.

Said she liked the warmth of it,
the way it anchored everything,
trees and houses and people:
that it was what we lived on.
She laughed every time we pointed out
the dirt under her nails.



Jean Biegun, retired in Sacramento, began writing poetry in 2000 to counter job stress, and it worked. Poems have appeared in After Hours, As It Ought to Be, Mobius: The Poetry Magazine, Mused: BellaOnline Literary Review, Ariel Chart, Goose River Anthology, World Haiku Review, Amethyst Review and other places.