No Shoes For Her Feet
The lady, a cabin on a prairied hill, early morning, she faces the sun.
Her hair pulled back tightly, chores to be done.
Her best done for her babies and man, back weary from the toil.
Soft wind pulls the cloth of her dress while her hands feel the soil.
Bu no shoes for her feet.
Warm arms winds around each child to stop the tears.
Voice so sweet as she sings away the night time fears.
But no shoes for her feet
Time passes, fledlings gone, silver threads in her hair.
The lady, my Mom, hands bent, back stooped, carried by a chair.
Now there’s shoes for her feet.
Mary Crawford, South Boston