In Memory of Dorothy Pitman Hughes
Years ago, I was honored to meet a friendly, gracious woman at a book festival in Jacksonville. She inspired me to write something in her honor, which (like most of my poems,) I’ve kept tucked away. This piece is dedicated to the great feminist, Dorothy Pitman Hughes, who passed away earlier this month.
The Gardener
The gardener is a daughter
who raised
fists full of power
among her sisters.
She brushes aside her soft,
African crown, unclenching her only
armament, to show the
children how to
plant
our tiny seeds.
“The wind will lift them right out of our
hands…,” she says.
“They are so light.”
The children enter the
garden, stepping into the
rain-soaked
soil, their baby shoes
sucked
downward, and then
released.
“A garden,” she teaches,
“needs constant
tending.”
Little fingers, well-taught,
stretch to touch the
fuzz-prickled stems, and the
berries, not yet
red.
Eager eyes dart, always back to
their teacher. “I see them!”
joyful voices ring.
“I see them!”
Acolytes all, she’ll raise them, too
on the recipe Our Lady handed
her, a long, long time
ago. She can still remember its luscious
weight upon her tongue.
Made just and right, it is
the sweetest there is—and ever will
be.
She calls her disciples to join
her at the table.
They remember to be
thankful
before they
partake.
She remembers the
four
in Birmingham.
Girls,
forever left
behind.
The gardener tends her
brood, then closes
her eyes to savor their
snack-time clucking. Music!
The sweetest there is,
and ever will
be.
Soon will come a story, delicately
served.
And then?
She will sing them to sleep, planting
tiny, august dreams for each and
every
soul.
Today, the gardener waits.
Still.
Patient.
She awaits the moment when
all her naptime gardeners
will
finally
awaken.
Beautiful, Julie. You captured Our Lady Dorothy!
Lovely poem,
A touching tribute. Thank you for this!