>O’Cottonwood

>

What I did to the Sunday photo from my father
What he meant for me to see: my Mother on Mother’s Day

Somewhere in New York, a friend treated her mother to the first lettuce from her garden. This was yesterday, Mother’s Day. Here in Montana, you can see what spring is like. Spring is a bit of a winter extension. Quick rule of thumb dictates no planting until after Mother’s Day and only after you see the cottonwoods budding.
In the photo that Sherry’s Dad’s daughter ruined up above, you can see yellow-greenish colorations on some of the forelimbs. These budding colorations are proof  the cottonwood tree is still living. My father says it is proof that the tree is Irish, with it’s nothing-beats-me-down attitude. I dunno, I think the photo is proof that the photographer is Irish what with his nothing-can-stop-my-blarney-spinabilities. Whichever way you would like to consider this, I remain the dutiful daughter who believes what she is told, but  then messes up his photography when his back is turned.
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About redmitten

author of Cracking Geodes Open, Making Good Use of August, and The Peppermint Bottle. poetry editor for IthacaLit and YB Poetry Journal. website: https://toomuchaugust.wordpress.com

3 responses to “>O’Cottonwood

  1. >Or, option "C" the photographer is drinking something Irish.Or "D" the editor is drinking something Irish.Or. "E" All of the above.:)

  2. >This is what makes you an artist – the irreverence to make something out of something else – regardless of opinion and consequences.

  3. >mel~ E is always a good choice.kass~ now i'm grinning. my irreverence sounds so good when you explain it this way. not being able to make something out of something else would stifle me. an ex used to say "why can't you just be like my sisters and make pot holders?"

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