It was a kind of family secret,
the paintings without names
Her modesty much stronger than her ego
Explosions of hues and brightness and joy
Capturing light as the mother of reflections on water,
and the spaces between shadows and curves
that spoke through the language of her brushes
It was how she talked to our hearts
when words, at times,
seemed the more difficult path for love
She stopped painting years before she left us,
but she wanted me to have the painting
of the flowers in the vase
A bouquet I gave her long ago for Mother’s Day
It hangs now in our bedroom,
near an eastward facing window,
where her gift assures me
as I turn out the light on another day
some of her will still be here
when I wake tomorrow