Potatoes
Potatoes
At dinner the other night,
mom fixed our favorite.
She baked them,
broiled them,
cut them up,
and fried them nice.
She told us,
this was the story of life,
all through dinner.
as we sat and ate,
and laughed and cried.
At the end,
we found we were;
comforted,
sad,
happy,
and made;
to feel like everything had…
importance.
It was not what was on the plate,
or even what was missing.
but that she made what she had,
with all she had,
and gave it willingly…
to those she loved.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
