My Mother Poem by Richard Lam

The slow movement follows
The stooping figure
Whose eyes have become so watery and sad
Whose hands have become so rough and old
All of this hides that once
She was a lady of rare beauty
With men wanting to court her
And women jealous of her fame
And before that a girl
Happy and innocent
Busy playing with water and picking precious seashells in that month of June
What have the years done to her?
How have life's unpleasant surprises worn out her body, heart, and mind?
What has become of my mother?
Who loves her children more than herself.