Mother showed me her saphhire rings,
seven she wore upon her hands.
I'd wear upon my hands her bands,
in awe of their beauty and shine.
I rolled around grass and felt the moring dew,
then gave back to mother the ring, now dirty, not new.
I looked into her eyes, honey-ambered and warm, thinking I'd see anger,
but only heard her sigh.
"You ought to take better care of things."
But then I had grown tired of rings, and I looked to see her crown,
studded with emeralds and jade.
I took her crown and went to play.
I dug a hole six feet deep and left the crown to sleep.
Mother comes to wake me up and I see the grays--
They wisp about her head, dead.
I go to fetch the crown, but only a few emeralds and jade remain.
Nonetheless, I place it back on mother's grays,
As her head sinks from its weight.
"Find the gems another day, for it's getting late."
I see mother's eyes clouding gray, the specks of yellow stowed away.
Mother's gems, mother's grays, mother's greens, mother's gays.
Mother's eyes, mother's sighs, mother's words, mother's heard.
I-- mother's knave.
There-- mother's grave.