My mother, the poet

My mother, the poet whose total output is only one poem a year written for my birthday is the woman whose hands turn flower beds into Eden, housework into history, sewing into art . . . and who in a day can seem to build Rome The woman with eyes full of clouds and crocuses, her human imprint at home on every wall, and a sunset smile of satisfaction . . . . Bringing up children not poems, never once imagining there is any difference.

Share this story:

We want to hear, did we miss an angle we should have covered? Should we come back to this topic? Or just give us a rating for this story. We want to hear from you.

Loading...

Loading...

Loading...

Save for later

Save
Cancel

Saved ( of items)

This item has been saved to read later from any device.
Access saved items through your user name at the top of the page.

View Saved Items

OK

Failed to save

You reached the limit of 20 saved items.
Please visit following link to manage you saved items.

View Saved Items

OK

Failed to save

You have already saved this item.

View Saved Items

OK