The Most Woman I Know

Poem

Photo from Unsplash by Linh Le that stands as my symbol for my mother and her messy child

My mother was always ironing something
And fascinating me.
How could the most beautiful woman
In the world be smiling at me,
And making my dinner, holding me closer,
Telling me winter's coming,
So she would take out my tiny jerseys and lumbers
From the kist
To put them in my wadrobe,
For when it would become very gray and cold.

My mother was always singing,
The living room was her stage.
How could the most talented woman
In the world be giving me an allergy syrup,
And making my bed, waiting for Christmas,
Telling me summer's here,
So she would put my tiny jerseys and lumbers
Back into the kist,
And my floral dresses
Back where they lived
For days and days;
She was there, packing them neatly.
It was sunny and it rained.

My mother was always laughing,
All over the place.
How could the most intelligent woman
In the world be this unlucky,
Giving and giving and giving her sand
And never building castles for herself,
Telling me the world is incredible
And I should be smiling too,
Telling me the world is incredible,
And my dreams are too.
She would help me cross the roads
From one side to another, holding my tiny hand tighter,
And boy was I kind of a messy child.