Monday, June 28, 2010


Tin Buckets

Mother, today near our yellow
garage, I leaned against old
chipped paint,
instead of flicking paint with
my finger - I stared at our old
pear tree
crying as if rain coated fur
coats – pears strewn about
the lawn – ants and worms
live inside
no one saves bruised fruit
or has time to cut away a
rotten spot – like Grandma.

Are you with Grandma?

You remember Grandma
took care of bruised fruit
tossed scraps from her second
floor window - of our city flat,
to feed blackbirds.

Those maple trees - you remember?
growing back home, in your town –
“Middle” – Mother said – always
said “Middle” not Middle Granville
a place near the border of Vermont -
Mother – you were proud of those
maple trees – crying like the pears
but into thin tin buckets – buckets
attached to mighty strong trunks -
tin buckets filled with maple syrup -

Mother, I know you can see me.

I bet all those trees with buckets
were glad to see you home
you climbed their limbs - you tied
tin to their trunks – you hid beneath
a Maple tree like a piece of scorned

Mother, you are not there - on the crest
gazing over rusted train tracks, tracks
twisting around raised stones – tracks
near your brother’s bar – you’re not
laying near trees crying into buckets

You see mother - now you can fly;

resting in peace – never your style
yet I do enjoy you listening when I
talk out loud – you see – I know you
are right here! You told me so. . .
Remember, “I'll haunt you till the
day you die.” Then laughed!
I believe you protect me…

Remember when you turned all the
fans on, and tears ran down our wall –
when pencils were tossed – pictures
fell – and now you’re moving glasses
and you hear me – you hear me when
I talk. My husband believes – since you
touched his face – I’m pleased –

Mother, you are watching me –

You see me, hear me, listen to all
the words – and answer in your own
way – we believe.

The day we placed a wreath at your
grave – knee deep in snow, we noticed
snow inside tin buckets –
Did you notice too?

We talked about the other side, you
told me about my birth – and all those
dead people coming back – I knew
everything by heart. So we talked as
I grew – and I believed – we talked
when you were dying, and I believed

You’re right here watching me as I
tell others!

But why not touch my face?

Mother, you can fly over our pear
tree and watch scraps of food fed
to black birds, and touch faces in
our sleep – guide us in daylight –

So fly mother, fly near the border
where slate resembles slabs of
fudge – where rocks fall into streams
where maples do cry into buckets,
and your talking with all your friends
now resting on the crest.

Fly – Fly – guide us all with your

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved


Anonymous said...

I am glad someone found you and you have published books of poems. Someday before I die, I wish to publish my poems too. Our moms are so much in our souls. Mine died when I was 25. I sure miss her and I think she looks at me too. I wish she is happy.

Nancy Denofio said...

Thanks so much! I am happy we have had the time to talk and discuss the work. I know you understand where the heart is, and where it remains! Important, and excellent to show in your writing.