Mother Poem by Harry Bryant

MOTHER


MOTHER

She sits at the table, her cup by her hand,
this wonderful lady, I think is so grand,
her laughter is catching, her face one big grin,
don't knock on her door, you just walk right on in,
friends she has many, enemies none,
she cuts into her bread as soon as it's done,
with sweet cream butter, that she has home made,
all of her baking she has on parade,
there on the stove is a pot boiling away,
filled up with veggies, just picked today,
you never know hunger when your in her house,
everyone is well fed, even the old mouse,
she hasn't the heart to set up a snare,
says that her food is for all to share,
when I am older and my hair is grey,
I want to be like her, in that wonderful way,
her hair was once golden, her eyes a bright blue,
yes she is growing old, but her heart is still true,
sometimes she remembers, sometimes she forgets,
when we go to visit, what a table she sets,
usually chicken, with stuffing and dumplings too,
we all eat our fill, and when everyone's through,
out comes the pie with home made ice cream,
that dessert is everyone's dream,
but there will come a day when her time is done,
she will be missed by everyone,
the memories we share of her will always be near,
and of her we will talk as if she was right here,
we will hear her laughter, and think of the love in her eyes,
that she will be here amongst us, is no surprise,
but for now she is with us for the rest of her days,
when she goes to bed, she kneels down and prays,
MOTHER, I wanted to tell you, while you are still here,
what a wonderful lady, you are my DEAR.

written by Harry Bryant
May 23,2002 11: 32pm �
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