Mums for Mom, her favorite,
On this cold, windy Autumn day.
Brittle leaves skittle across her stone.
She would have liked the sunshine though.
It's been too long.
Within easy sight of this tombstone,
There are some children playing outdoors,
(Like children used to);
Their voices a comforting adolescent
Murmur of life.
I lay the flowers at her feet.
She, the one who used to call me
In from playing outdoors all day
For a good supper and warm
Comfort before bed.
She, who's voice I still hear:
The clarion call at dusk
When bones were aching from play,
Made on thousands of days;
Now lying with the dead...
And in a nod of time,
I'm standing here instead.
I'm her last, beyond grown,
And even past calling in my own,
But answering her's again.
