Daughters are their mother's memories of themselves
Trapped for a moment like a bug in amber then
Left for dead or worshipped like the god she is
To herself, the creator, the first mover, the one
And only after death comes and goes and
The amber of your mother's memory of
Herself becomes clear to you
Then do you realize
You loved her
Trapped for a moment like a bug in amber then
Left for dead or worshipped like the god she is
To herself, the creator, the first mover, the one
And only after death comes and goes and
The amber of your mother's memory of
Herself becomes clear to you
Then do you realize
You loved her
8 comments:
Wonderful poetry. Very moving.
Peggy, this is so beautiful. You are a poet, a good one! I'm glad you are showing us your work.
:)
Finished moments ago and written like it had always existed and I am merely transposing it. That is how poetry writes itself through me. Mysterious process. The inspiration hits and I have nothing to do with it but type.
Savage, you are one hell of a poet, that was breathtaking.
Thanks Katie. Have fun tonight.
yes. tears....
I love the poem too but I really love the configuration on the screen. You've impressed me yet again.
Susan, thank you. I'm glad you see the esthetic in the words as they fall on the page. That's an artist's eye.
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