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my mother died this
year at eighty-eight
this was not
unexpected she was old
year after year had
laid on her their freight
none of us were
certain our words had no weight
all of our feelings
open uncontrolled
my mother died this
year at eighty-eight
her life was a true
cycle and her fate
a journey ended
where justly foretold
year after year had
laid on her their freight
my only choice here
is to celebrate
the tales of who
she was and those she told
my mother died this
year at eighty-eight
the wonder is we
rise to the estate
of adult human but
cannot say bold
year after
year had laid on her their freight
the tears well up
the flow of them is great
but living folk
must bear up under cold
my mother died this
year at eighty-eight
year after year had
laid on her their freight
