Scribblings

Mother

Your problem,

And your strength is,

You're too much of who you are.

A mother first and before everything,

And In spite of this

Crushable paper cup gangly  frame,

Who walked ungratefully,

In the corridor of your shadow.

Who gave  you lip,

and then went for days without lip service to anyone.

You stayed patient.

All young razored edged

Weeping violets,

Must uproot and take flight from the dust gathered shelf.

But this self skewed reflection will always be your first son.

First sown,

Firstborn,

First grown,

First gone.

He must let the present drift to the past.

Although now he races to the future,

Sails puff-proud breasted

With well-burnt youth.

It's your mast he's rigged to.

Your strength

Which he mastered and made his own.

The stem of the budding flower,

Is rooted in your home.