Who Is This Woman I Love
She was beauty, softness and she was grace.
She was loves maintained, ever giving face.
She was forgiveness in gesture soothing pace.
She trimmed my self-worth with maternal lace.
She was my one dependable home place.
Forever, I will gratefully bear her trace.
Since her late fifties, she has shown much change.
No longer is joy or logic found in her campaign.
She clutches bitterness to allow its reign,
as though bitter be her only lifetime gain.
She seems to fist, produce and seed blame.
She taints the past with cruel words that stain.
How I miss and desire the woman I knew!
She guided me as I grew and after, too.
I long for the laughter that would ensue
whenever we gathered alone, just we two.
I cry for the woman I always turned to
whenever I was joyous, confused or blue.
She is my beloved Mother, and she is not.
My best attempts fail as her remedy sought.
I break in dark pieces seeing her so caught
in the bitter web of resentment’s sick plot.
I know not if karma fated her this distraught
or what spirit truth might loosen her knots.
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