Karen by Margaret V. Doran

Karen

Margaret V.Doran

You are like a daffodil
blooming in the middle of a pasture,
surprising, unexpected, leaving me wondering,
How did it get there?

Did God plant it just for me
or to delight every passerby?
And though I think that I alone appreciate it,
it is true that all who see it are enchanted.

That is you . . .
I cannot hope to understand you,
try as I might, you remain an enigma
but you touch the lives of all around you.

You know me certainly better than I know you
yet I am the mother and you the daughter.
Does it have something to do with being a middle child
that has made you more unto yourself?

I just know that with you, life is unpredictable.
And that is just how you want it.
You never have to work at it
you simply are what no one else is.

And so I try, and continue to fail,
to understand you enough to do things for you;
things you will love . . . and don’t.
Surprises you are . . . bored with.

How can 50% of you be me and yet
I seem to have no intuitive sense
about what you will like or say or do,
about how you think or will respond?

Why don’t you speak to my inner self?
Is it that you don’t want to and have
shut me out of the recesses of your mind
and closed your windows and bolted your doors?

And that, like the daffodil,
God created you not for me to understand
but to enjoy and delight in and to love
and to share unselfishly with others?

For I find that you have compassion to give and
love to share which uplifts them
and I, perhaps, am the only one who thinks
she should be able to understand you

The rest accept what you have to offer.
Knowing that you bring sunshine and laughter,
they make no other demands than what you give
and thank God for your being.

Should I learn from them how to treat you
and provide a safe haven from which to embark?
Knowing you give back more than you take,
should I simply accept without repaying?

So as I tend my garden of children,
knowing each one like my own self,
there you are, blooming more beautifully,
seemingly not needing my care at all.

Yet, somehow, I know that if I look away
you might wilt and wither
and so even in frustration I keep trying
and you remain . . . strong and beautiful.

Read the poems for my other children: Sarah|Elizabeth|Brian|Garrett

Updated July 7, 1999
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