My Mother

My mother, with her various looks,
Was mighty with her tongue
Since talking towards a religion
Mattered to the rich and wealthy.
This was strung together
With my observation, a skill of grace
And an art of happiness.
As witty as pushing the carts
Into the streets, management
Of life occurred, for my mother
Was a parent of her fingers.
And actions were somewhat
Desirous of minding, actions represented
The skill of growth.

poem by Naveed Akram
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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