My mother had to be strong,
as her children sat around
a whitewashed picnic table.
And indulged in the sweet juice of life,
while she drank the bitter.
Like her ancestors before her,
she slaved away.
Gleaning after the reapers.
Soaking up the knowledge
they left behind.
Waiting to be passed the parched grain,
hoping to fill bellies.
Her juice was made from
the sweat and tears of life.
From the bitter fruit
on the tree of Eden.
📍Location: Picnic Table
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Memories Make A House A Home: A Poetry Collection
ПоэзияThis is a collection of poems inspired by George Ella Lyon's "A Many-Storied House". These will all be based off of my childhood home. Some will contain certain memories others will comment/reflect on life. Please enjoy! ____________________________...
