Dreams in Queen Anne's Park

On Friday evening a friend of mine asked if I wanted to write a letter as part of an art project that her daughter was doing at college.  For some reason, I dove right into the request to capture the images that started to come into my mind. They were of Queen Anne's Park which was right around the corner of our house in Newport Rhode Island while I was pregnant with my daughter. We lived there until she was four and she is my inspiration for the poem below:

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Dreams in Queen Anne’s Park

Dear Daughter,

I stopped to rest beneath our Sycamore tree.
In the park, near the house, where you were born.
I remember sitting on summer grass at the same place, years back.
While your presence formed. Unaware of how you’d change me.
Your tiny hands would challenge every misconception.
Every constancy I’d ever known, exchanged for love.
The prodigious force that multiplied.
Entwined with you and I inside.
Delivered to each other like unexpected twins.

Each birthday flickered holograms, of candles on your cake.
The holy moments. The only moments.
While you count cartwheels in pink tutus.
Lasso monsters in dress-up shoes.
You keep rainbows in a jar.
And I, captivated by the prisms of your laughter.
Like the ones we hung near windows, by your pillow. In your lemon-yellow room.

Glimpses of far away planets remind me of impermanence.
Memories float like incense and linger in the air.
You are a constellation organized in a fistful of scattered seeds.
The growth patterns imperceptible.
The chances impossible.
You are a wildflower in technicolor.
And fireworks blooming in July.

My mortal hands reveal veins like patterns.
A map of traveled routes to the motherland you made of me.
The fertile land you blessed for me.
With open hands you gestured me.
While beaming your unicorn smile.

My pilgrimage begins at every sacred site of you.
I wonder at the sight of you.
The epicenter of everything that goodness ever made.
Taking particles of you with me.
Life hasn't dreamed the last of me.
I won’t carve the base of our Sycamore tree.
For the imprint of you {LOVE} is in my heart.

-Momma

(Monica Rodgers Jan 26th, 2018)