Each gentle evening as a child,
As dusk would claim the day’s delight,
The simple joy of evening chores
Would sweeten the approaching night.
 
My mother’s soft voice filled the evenings,
Bringing words of life to light,
Nurturing a love of language
With each poem she’d recite.
 
The dinner table cleared once more,
Of cups and saucers duties met,
Each dripping dish became a stanza,
Words of poets, sudsed and wet.
 
Such hard-worked hands would rinse the last,
As gentle eyes would linger still,
Searching landscapes in her mind,
Far beyond the windowsill.
 
My mother’s voice became a paintbrush,
Painting time and space, to find
Dear words held captive, once, on paper,
Dancing in her child’s mind.
 
Bath and bedtime come and gone,
The canvas rich with prismed prose,
The child sleeps, and in her dreams,
There blossoms a cerebral rose.

 

 Deborah Mary Thompson

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