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The poem that I wrote for my mother on Mother's Day while she was still alive and I was still a teenager

by A. J. Windless

In a little town on a high plateau
Amid rolling hills and lofty green trees
Lives and labors a mother I know
Scrubbing floors on hands and knees

She comes from a family of goodly stock
Raised on a farm, raised in God
With a good foundation, solid as a rock
They kept the child, and spoiled the rod.

To study nursing she moved to the city
Then got married, so young and pretty
She bore her children, brought them up
Gave all five, love's full cup

Within her hid talents galore
Statues and paintings, and she'll do more
Albums and dolls and flowers in bloom
Her creative endeavors cover the room.

She holds within her nurse's arms
All the babies born so new
Throughout the town and all the farms
She delivered most of you.

She rises early and goes to pray
Then comes home and puts dinner on
Cleans and cans, then works for pay
Falls to bed, and the day is gone.

She is the only mother in all the earth,
For the others are mothers you see

To those that they gave birth,
But only mine is mom to me.


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