Mother’s Day

One slow Sunday morning

of feigned sleep each May,

my children banged about

the kitchen preparing

“breakfast in bed for Mommy,”

their daddy playing line-leader

in a parade of plates.


Yesterday – nearly grown – they

owned this small tradition,

lined four wide beside my bed,

beamed like children.

Plates of cheese eggs,

fried potatoes, toast, berries,

coffee with cream

paraded in with pride.

I sipped, tasted, tried

to keep my heart contained,

but the sun shone on their faces


eager as before. I see them still

piled beside, a mix of pillows,

elbows, knees; we

talked and laughed,

I shared my berries,

memorized the view.


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