Spring, bright and fresh, birds sing as a cool
morning breeze floats through magnolia trees,
thoughts of long ago day’s surface into the now.
A gracious woman of the South rises from past
memories into the present, ice eyes, cheeks a
natural rose-colored, speaking with the sound
of dripping honey.
She leans toward a honeysuckle vine dreaming of
what was and what will never be, her chained heart
tugs at the sealed door.
A mocking bird sits and sings deep within the lilac
bush, as she dips her fingers slowly in a pebbly brook,
her reality; life passed her by, and the depths of her
sorrow never known.
Nevertheless, in her place of selfishness she never
denied her hate for the child she brought into her
unwanted world, does she deserve the name “mother”.
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