To Mother, from Her Tenth Child
While cleaning house, removing clutter collected over the last thirty plus years, I discovered a poem I had written for my mother's birthday in May 1982. I was 18 years old.
Sometimes she smells like turpentine,
On occasion like flowery perfume.
In the summer she smells like earthen powder,
Crushed tomato leaves, and marigolds.
In the fall her scent is of roast and fried chicken and laughter
Flowing freely through the air.
I like most her floury apron smell as I rest
Safely in her arms.
Some
