Sometimes In summer
When the weather smothers
I wonder whether the garden knows.
The shape of the hand that mothers
Or the fist that brings the hose.
Flowers wilt and bow in worship,
Begging palms to bring the rain.
Fruit given up in offering
To exchange and then obtain.

Sitting at this table,
My sisters in their place,
My brother at the top,
With a baby by his waist.

We’re mostly parents now,
With our kids in tow,
But when I look at your faces,
I see the little kids I used to know.

We all have our own lives,
Of our own creation,
No longer just play pretend
On some summer vacation.

A brand new generation,
Being raised by us,
They’re little and young and free,
And I love them all so much.

Even when I don’t see them,
Or weather cancels our plans,
Being a sister, a mother, an aunt-
The best roles I could ever land.

And we’ll sit here at this table,
Loud, chaotic, and such,
Often I’m sad, honestly mad,
But in this moment, life has given me so much.