Wednesday, April 7th, 2010
Brass is my dogwood
It’s been a tradition in my Georgia family to take a trek out into the woods sometime around Easter to see the lush wild azaleas and dogwood blooming amongst the pines. I haven’t been home at Easter time since we were married, so the hills of oranges, pinks, magentas, whites, golds, reds live for me only in my mind.
When I visited the flower show here in Minneapolis a week ago on the last day of March, the first thing I saw transported me to Georgia on about that date in 1992.
My father died on March 26, 1992. His funeral was just a couple of days later. So it would have been on the 30th or 31st that Johnny and our sons and I hiked out to the azalea hill. I hadn’t known how much I was counting on God to soothe my spirit through the beauty of the sweetly-remembered azaleas and dogwood. I hadn’t known until we got there and discovered all the buds still closed–not one bloom in sight.
While Johnny and the kids climbed on nearby stone wall ruins and splashed in the rocky creek, I lay face down in the pine needles and wept as I hadn’t wept after the first moments when I knew Daddy was gone. My grief over the absence of the azaleas sucked into itself my grief at the absence of Daddy.
EASTER FLAMES
A Villanelle Far from Home
by Noël Piper
Azalea and dogwood blooms hide the old mill,
dead pine straw ablaze as the hearthplace of spring. But here,
brass is my dogwood and far from its hill.
When Daddy’s fire died and forever was still,
his granddaughters gathered white blossoms out where
azalea and dogwood blooms hide the old mill.
I thought, when our kinfolk had all gone back home, “I will
look for his flowers of flame while I’m here.”
(Brass is my dogwood and far from its hill.)
Sparks of tight buds were the promise I found – still
too early for flames; so the pine straw caught tears where
azalea and dogwood blooms hide the old mill.
The dogwood that hangs from the chain on my neck, still
carries the heart of the ones at the mill, though here
brass is my dogwood and far from its hill.
My northern azaleas resist winter-kill,
and bear flickering flames, pink and orange, of where
azalea and dogwood blooms hide the old mill.
Brass is my dogwood and far from its hill.
9 Responses to “Brass is my dogwood”
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I love it!
I love this, Noel. I’m missing dogwoods, azaleas…and my daddy, too.
Thanks for this glimpse of your heart.
The azaleas in my backyard are just budding now, the spring is so late here. The beauty of a Georgia spring is something mighty to behold. This is my third and I’m loving every minute. Is that the jewelry your niece makes?
No, it’s from Stuart Nye in Asheville, NC. But Miriam has done something similar in the past.
I’m in southeastern NC, where we have an annual Azalea Festival! It’s actually taking place this weekend in Wilmington, NC. Maybe your family would enjoy attending sometime :)
http://www.ncazaleafestival.org/
I love your poem…and I miss my Dad, too. I have a ring that looks exactly like your necklace & earrings…it belonged to my mom!
From Stuart Nye in Asheville, I bet. My mother has a set too. And that’s where I got mine.
Lovely. Lovely. Lovely.
I’ll never forget driving from Kansas back to West Virginia for my Grandma’s funeral with my Dad and Mom. Mom had cut a rose from her garden to take back to place on Grandma’s grave since roses are a flower they loved together. As the trip wore on, the rose wore on. I remember thinking of the symbolism and weeping as Mom lovingly cared for Grandma’s rose on our long trip.
Beautiful! Thanks for sharing.
What a joy it is to have such memories! What a gift from God to be able to feel such sweet sorrow for someone you love so much, who made his family his world and sharing God’s love his ambition.