Yellow Bells or Forsythia?

Take your pick. I don't remember seeing Forsythia when I was growing up, but when I moved to Carolina, there it was. And is. Here folks call it Yellow Bells. Ringing in the spring. I like that. And I like even better this poem by Glenis Redmond, titled "Naming." It appeared in the winter issue of Appalachian Journal. Go to "My Laureate's Lasso" next door to read more of Glenis's poems. She is Poet of the Week on that site.


Naming

I tell mom Forsythia is blooming in the neighbor’s yard.
She says, For-sith-a-what? I say, a golden bush burning like a fire.
She says, we call them Yellow Bell the other word is too hard.

The proper name pricks her tongue like a useless shard.
Her folklore lessons unfold like the bush that inspires.
I tell mom Forsythia is blooming in the neighbor’s yard.

The golden leaves aflame enchanting the heart of a bard.
She says, For-sith-a-what? I say, a golden bush burning like a fire.
She says, we call them Yellow Bell the other word is too hard.

Her looking back always carries me like a river forward.
The balm of her history flows from the heart without tire.
I tell mom Forsythia is blooming in the neighbor’s yard.

She listens, retrieves her past memories unmarred.
She’s still entranced by this bright beckoning spire.
She says, we call them Yellow Bell the other word is too hard.

Foreign words anguish her tongue and leave it scarred.
Yet her simple words heal and lift me gently higher.
I tell mom Forsythia is blooming in the neighbor’s yard.
She says, we call them Yellow Bell the other word is too hard.

----Glenis Redmond