Mother
1887-1959
I have praised many loved ones in my song,
And yet I stand
Before her shrine, to whom all things belong,
With empty hand.
Perhaps the ripening future holds a time
For things unsaid;
Not now; men do not celebrate in rhyme
Their daily bread.
DayPoems Poem No. 1147
<a href="http://www.daypoems.net/poems/1147.html">Mother by Theresa Helburn</a>
The DayPoems Poetry Collection, www.daypoems.net
Timothy Bovee, editor
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