Poem for Mothers' Day

Oh we never know our parents…
isn’t that the cruellest thing?

we were never old enough
to know them as they were;

how I wish I had been just as old
as she and he were; to sit
across the rug from them and say

now tell me the story of your life,
don’t miss out anything..

how could I then not love you more,
you strangers whom I fought to be
myself; where were yourselves the while?

*

I’m crumpling this poem in
my salty hand and throwing it
into the wind whose wisdom
may dropp it at your feet;
your feet I never washed;
would wash now with my tears;

and then, perhaps, wash history
clean, with touched hands, shared laughter;
as clean now as ever after.

poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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