Flip the pot, or not—
We are all our mother’s plot.
For mine, who was fine,
A prayer who made the cut.
We are all our mother’s plot.
For mine, who was fine,
A prayer who made the cut.
I understand now how she loved them all,
And loved them all so well.
Different, as she said.
Same, as she believed.
And truthful as well.
The first challenged her, a handful I would think.
The second was her shadow, there every time she’d blink.
The third reminded her of her mother, similar to her kin.
The fourth, a light—impossible not to love.
She loved them all so well.
Then comes I:
The hope of a best friend.
Well, Mum, tonight?
I know you were right.
I love them too.
Different, as you said.
Same, as you believed.
And truthful as well.