Sunday Poetry

By alison January 30, 2011 6 Comments 1 Min Read

Mother, Washing Dishes

She rarely made us do it—
we’d clear the table instead—so my sister and I teased
that some day we’d train our children right
and not end up like her, after every meal stuck
with red knuckles, a bleached rag to wipe and wring.
The one chore she spared us: gummy plates
in water greasy and swirling with sloughed peas,
globs of egg and gravy.
Or did she guard her place
at the window? Not wanting to give up the gloss
of the magnolia, the school traffic humming.
Sunset, finches at the feeder. First sightings
of the mail truck at the curb, just after noon,
delivering a note, a card, the least bit of news.
Susan Meyers

Other Things To Do At BrocanteHome

6 Comments

  1. Leslie Anne says:

    Alison, I'm not usually one for poetry – usually because I don't 'get' it. But this one I not only liked/enjoyed, I also 'got' it. Thank you! Leslie Anne

  2. Marcia says:

    Great little mom poem, and I love the sweet old image that goes along with it. Thank you so much for your sweet comments 🙂
    Blessings,
    Marcia

  3. I'm so thrilled to have found another blog that I L.O.V.E . I've read right back into your archives and I'm literally besotted!!
    I love your writing style and the things you post about.
    I subscribed after about two seconds here!!
    Sarahcx

  4. Wendy says:

    LOVE this one:)

  5. think I might send that to my mum!!

  6. Colleen says:

    I just loved that6! It "twinged" in my heart…

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