Mother

Mother

Mother was not a Poet, per se..at least not in the usual way, but I think she could have been if she'd only had an education.
She never went to school..taught herself to read and write, yet she got her feelings across all right.
She could describe a sunset in all it's glory, a rainbow, the beauty of a rose..in perfect prose; make up little songs in rhyme, that she'd sing, keeping perfect time with each rhythmic creak of the old, porch rocker.
With each baby's painful colic-cry, she'd nary bat an eye, but let loose a soothing lullaby right off the tip of her tongue.
Her apple pie was a thing of beauty, a work of art that she proudly presented as

         a little bit of dough and apple slices
         a sprinkling of sugar, a pinch of spices
         a little sweet, a little tart
         a whole lot'a love from my heart

It is no wonder that poetry is ingrained in me and how that came to be; I know not what the future brings but she is my hero and the wind beneath my wings.