She wore her cotton purpled sash squares through each yard.

For I never saw a mother with such a discerning eye.

While the day withered from sunshine to bitter night.

 

For I never saw a mother feed the dead.

In her kitchen with each tool and recipe,

sweeping rounded pipes of potted meat

 

For I never  saw a mother with such a piercing look

tumbling in and out of oven-soot.

 

Her humbled feet grounded by the gardens leaves,

just to sing a mumbled tune.

Ah- if that mother’s son could only breathe

For I never saw a mother feed the dead,

with such a discerning eye.