Mama Loved Us by Brian K Compton

The sweet bleach on her hands,
her life's work scrubbing pans.
Knuckles blistered and cracked,
true beauty she did not lack.

She had time for a garden;
her pale fingers would harden.
Unyielding to the setting sun,
so much she could not get done.

She could sew me a surprise,
dry the tears from my eyes.
She'd bellow a merry story;
there was no end to her glory.

Her life unalterably simplified;
Mama loved us 'til the day she died.


Margarent Genevieve Cue 1923-2000