The Mothers Song-
I, the lone adult, lop off strawberry heads,
give them over to eager hands
whose feet march the tiled floors
like a roving army.
I, the kitchen guard enslaved to endless snack orders-
or else chained to the beast in the basement,
that creaking weary warrior
sputtering out half dry clothes,
threatening to take leave of this earthly place.
My cotton-stuffed brain remembers a time when,
I was necessary for more than
wiping faces, asses, refereeing
arguments that start and end with ‘because’.
Dimly, but still there-
is someone who felt worthy of time,
who drank coffee when it was hot
instead of finding it filmed over,
in the microwave no less!
My books, like so much refuse of a life leftover
lay dormant in another worlds room.
I, the mouse nibbling at cardboard corner,
desperate to gain access.
Constantly scared away by a loud noise.
The misheard blip-
There is an upset in Spring!
This bud, refuses to burst
instead withering on it’s vine.
All its generation explode in gentle blues,
and lady pinks, but this one,
tightly, prudishly wrapped will never know
the blistering sun or the cool of dusk.
I had mapped out this universe
and now must come to terms with my halted exploration.
A week later, freshly cut stems
grace my table, harvested by loving hands.
They wilt, age, just the same
as those roughly uprooted and discarded;
for Death leaves no one un-plucked.