A Piece of My Mother Yet In Green Ireland
Mother's fine old broach had I worn
on the edge of my green jacket
that I'd bought to keep me warm
-but the shamrock undid its latchet.
The broach fell off in the trek
to Brewley’s to rest our poor feet.
I had a coffee, and what the heck,
of course, I had me a sweet.
I was brushing the crumbs from my chest,
and there did I notice my loss,
a token of Mother, and one she liked best
now gone to some Irish girl's blouse.
My Scotch-Irish Mom's in glory.
She'd never crossed an ocean.
Bringing her broach was my fantasy story.
She'd accompany me here was my notion.
So I left a piece of my dear little Marm
where her distant relatives thrive.
I like to think it's admired for its charm
"It sparkles," they'll say, "It's alive!"
Far from a drawer near the Ohio banks,
yet that piece is just where she'd choose it.
For life spends itself in fancies and pranks.
If we can't see it thus, then, we lose it.
Copyright © Judy Light Ayyildiz | Year Posted 2016
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