To Mother

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. 

This poem is about: 
Our world

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