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Back to The Reading Lamp
Back to my poetry On the Short DaysI can do it. I can Precious moments lost Upon that thought. What can you do When you work every minute To the bone So you won't suffer the guilt Inflicted by a quiet moment? Can I face the knowledge that I'm not the woman my mother was? A woman who rose to work with the dawn To cook food for my belly, Clothe my body, Impart wisdom for my young mind, And love me so that my soul Could also grow to its fullest. All for me, times three. Somehow I manage to feel lessened When I take the time to be more. I can't settle for simply being a cook, A maid, a wet nurse, and a warden. If I can't survive with my selfish splurge, My hedonistic hour, If I can't drag myself from one task To another through a week of days, With no respite for the weary, What kind of mother will I be? Send comments to poetess@hotmail.com © 1998 |