Poem for My Mother
by Robert Frost

She said I'd write a poem
for her
on the day she died -
flowers to the grave . . .
like flowers to the grave.

Dad was the creative one
with dear little gifts
of precious rhyme
that made her heart smile
and their times special.

Mom's talents
were wise and practical.
Fine dining
was meatloaf and molasses cookies,
goulash and cream puffs,
and Sunday roasts with Boston Cream pie.
Love was surely
clean clothes
warm and fragrant from the sun;
and love held me
in my little bed
of gentle quilted calicos
unique
among the others
sewn only by her hand.

When time allowed,
it was
knit one, purl two
knit one, purl two
knit one, purl two . . .
as she smiled through our sorrow
and loved me in unlovable times.

Turns out . . .
what I wanted
was what I needed,
and still
I want . . .

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