Mom, Who Paints The Sky That Way, poetry by Elaine Marie at

Mom, Who Paints The Sky That Way

Mom, Who Paints The Sky That Way

written by: Elaine Marie



I watched my blonde-haired babies, laughing in their play
While I worked the soil in Spring, that warm, clear April day.
Later, Chris upon my lap and Angie at my side.
They told me of a treasure they’d been digging up outside.
Christy rode a stallion and Angie drove a car…
Rocks and sticks, an old tin cup, the lid to some lost jar,
They tipped it up to show me what the treasure chest contained.
While I wondered how I’d ever lived without this kind of day.
Tousled heads and magic, and laundry in a pile,
I rubbed my growing belly with a secret little smile…
We watched the sun fade in the sky, the girls were winding down.
They cuddled close to where I sat, cross legged on the ground.
“Mom. Who paints the sky that way?” My Angie asked of me.
She gazed upon the fading hue… she was only three.
Christy laughed and Nan was hurt, I had to shush the fight,
I considered how to answer, as dusk turned into night.
We laid upon a sun warmed ground, stars glimmered into view.
We sang Twinkle, Twinkle like they always loved to do.
I tucked them in, and talked some more, read Tootle’s book again,
Sang the nightly bedtime song, Saginaw Michigan.
As I patted Angie’s hiney, with Christy still wide eyed…
I said, “I think that it is God that gently paints the sky.”
Angie turned and looked at me and Christy listened then.
I said, “It is a gift I think, from God to mortal men.
It’s like the gentle rain and wind, the sun that makes things grow.
The treasure that you always find… just part of life, you know?”
I crawled in between them, one head upon each breast.
“It’s like God saves the special things that he loves the best.
For a perfect stunning moment, we share but cannot keep.”
“He probably used a paintbrush,” Chris said, drifting into sleep.
“I think he used his hand,” said Ange. “Like when he makes the thunder.”
“I don’t know,” Chris whispered, in a little voice of wonder.
I was looking at them and thinking how they’d grown,
I was so profoundly sad because a Mama knows.
I kissed their cheeks, inhaled the scent of fresh washed baby hair
And knew that some tomorrow, they would not be lying there.
So, I cuddled them that night… in content untroubled sleep,
In a perfect, precious moment that I shared but could not keep.



This poem is a reflection of a day in my life in 1982 with my sweet Christy and Angie. I was pregnant with my Joshua and Candy would come along 3 years later…

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