Hazel
A poem by Laree Kiely

Hazel

I always picture her harvesting blackberries
Soon to be pies or jams
Apron on, basket in hand
Her garden; her one place of joy and peace and forgetting
Forgetting the weight of her broken soul; the gaping wound in her heart
Uncurable burdens that she hoped would not define her, but did, just the same
She loved grandmothering; the bandaid on her wounds
They would never heal, but she could hide them for a short while
We could even make her laugh although she was more prone to tears.
No one ever knew her monstrous memories
We could only guess
And we could celebrate her pies and love her homegrown berries

About the Author:

Laree Kiely, PhD lives in the redwood forests of northern California. Career-wise, she’s a retired professor and, at present, the CEO of a boutique consulting firm. History-wise, she grew up at the base of the Rocky Mountains in Colorado, the granddaughter of a train robber and the daughter of two parents who hated school but loved nature. Writing soothes her restless soul.

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