Waiting to Sprout

When Mama died, someone gave me a poem that I carried with me for a long time. I am ashamed to say that I cannot remember her name. I see her face. But I don’t remember names. She might even be on one of my teams.

I lost that poem a few years ago, and I have searched everywhere for a copy of it. That is difficult because I do not know the name. The basic concept will live with me forever. The poem compares the mother to the redwood tree. The seeds of the daughter trees live in the roots of the mother tree, and the mother must die for the daughters to live. The comparison suggests that we can never become women in our own right until we have lost the women who gave birth to us.


I am still waiting to sprout.

My Sprouts