A Poem For Spring

Mary Richardson wrote to us at the spring last year as part of her move from Pennsylvania to Colorado Springs. Her reasons for the move were quite simple, access to clean water.

Nothing says “Spring” like a Spring … with flowers.

Richardson is a nurse but her the hospital where she worked pushed baby formula, mixed with ordinary water, on new mothers and their babies. She now works in a lactation nurse in a Baby Friendly, hospital. “Baby Friendly” was coined by the World Health Organization (WHO) and the United Nations Children’s Fund (UNICEF) who launched the Baby-Friendly Hospital Initiative (BFHI), a global program to encourage the broad-scale implementation of the Ten Steps to Successful Breastfeeding and the International Code of Marketing of Breast-milk Substitutes. The BFHI assists hospitals in giving mothers the information, confidence, and skills necessary to successfully initiate and continue breastfeeding their babies or safely feed with formula, and gives special recognition to hospitals that have done so.

Mary, who now lives in Colorado Springs in a place called the Garden of The Gods …. and she only drinks water from nearby Manitou Springs, a town that has a few mineral springs.

During a recent walk, Mary was inspired to write a poem about the Blue Bell flowers she saw …. I asked her if we could share it here “Homage to Blue Bells.”

Why do Bluebells hang their heads down low

Are they tired or sad allowing their tears to flow

Assisting their roots with water to grow

It’s very possible we may never know

Why do Bluebells stare down at the ground

As if in a dream or lost in a sound

Wild things roam and creatures abound

Perhaps the answer can never be found

Why do Bluebells not come up for air

As if the sun is no more their care

They seem content to just stand there

It’s beyond comprehension, life isn’t fair

Why do Bluebells have a hunch on their back

As if looking down is a natural act

Dusty floors, a wall with a crack

Only an earthworm gets a look at that

A world without Bluebells would be a sorrowful place

They remind us of gratitude and private space

Things of true beauty can often be traced

To a Bluebell’s mystery of hiding its face

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