Cottonwood Wings

a poem for my son to read at the funeral


You might want to read this first



In the Spring, God brings forth life
Cottonwood drifts by on the wind.
We water our gardens with tears
for we have lost a dear friend.

Her kindness grew like tulips
Proud and colorful and tall
Her compassion, a vine reaching  
our lives and touching us all.

Our beloved Beverly was so
Warm-hearted, sweet, and caring
Loved her family with all her soul
Though cancer, in the end, unsparing.

A kind and quiet woman who
grew like the flowers
and paled into silence
in her last waning hours.

Her Spring was cut short,
Her candle burned low,
in God’s precious time
she knew she must go.

Though it’s hard for us
in this bountiful spring
we let go and know
God’s given her wings.


I was asked to write a poem for my son to read at his Step-mother’s funeral next week.

He is to speak at the funeral, at which time he will read the above poem, no doubt through shaky nerves (to my knowledge this will be his first “public speaking” engagement), and through a heavy wall of emotion. He is with-holding so much emotion about this whole thing.

As a mother, my heart is breaking for him. He has no memories of his life prior to her entering it. It is a terrible loss. How in the world do you honor that in a poem? Yet, this is the task I was given.

To make it simple enough for the country-folk family members to be able to appreciate, make it rhyme so it sounds to them like a poem, make it personal enough that it touches their hearts, Christian enough and reassuring enough so that they are comforted in their time of sorrow.

What an arduous task, but I wanted to do something. And this is what I do–so I hope you have enjoyed reading Cottonwood Wings. I am honored to have written it for my son. (I think it will mean a lot to him.)

(In Memoriam, Beverly Mullis; wife, mother, sister, daughter, grandmother, friend)

Follow My New Medium Publication!

The Mourn

a poem about the emotional trauma of hysterectomy

grayscale photo of woman right hand on glass

https://unsplash.com/photos/nwWUBsW6ud4



in time, eggs drop
as they may
a crimson furnace burns
waits for them
then rejects even
the idea of babies

babies that refuse to be bound
and tear their way out
leaving you
to your stitches

these eggs, they stay now…
where are they to go?
a furnace burnt out
removed scoop by scoop
fleshy tumors in a pan

I am not ashamed that
I screamed at God.

who would now mourn
these tiny keepers of
life? I must say I,
and I alone.

no more fat and bald
purple-plump and wet
wan cries erupting
gurgle and shriek
announce,
I am alive
I am alive

Follow My New Medium Publication!F

Don’t Miss Updates on Christina’s Poetry and Book Releases!

Medium