Remembering Mama and Lessons Learned |
My mother sang sweet songs to me Of looking glasses and lilac trees And things I didn't understand Like hot-cross buns and some old pie man. For hours and hours, it seems, she'd croon As I'd lie down in the living room Under a fan, on the cool floor, A summer breeze blowing through the door. At first I would not fall asleep, But watched as shadows would slowly creep Through the curtains of starched white lace Casting their patterns on mother's face. But as she gently rocked her chair, Sundrops flowing through her dark brown hair, She'd keep a watchful, loving eye And I'd drift off on her lullaby To lands where spoons danced with dishes And children's dreams came true on wishes And blackbirds, baked in pies, still sang And cockleshells from small gardens sprang. I'd visit there with kings and queens, Fairies and horses with golden wings Who'd sometimes take me flying high Over the great land of Lullaby. But when my mother's songs would end And I would slowly drift back again, I'd always have tucked in my hand Lessons learned in that far-away land. For things are never as they seem Neither here nor in that land of dream And there are times when I must try Making it through on a lullaby. |