On a Mocking Bird Day…

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”.

 

©2014.annjohnsonmurphree

 

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