Walking Home

Warm it was, your mother’s hand.
She waited at the school bus stand.
You won’t believe how young she was
When dreams caressed your cheek unplanned.

Linked to dVerse Poetry Forms. I am hosting at dVerse with the ruba’i or rubaiyat form.

Coming Rain


Should we feel we are lonely recall
Painful separateness feels like a fall.
We’ve our mothers to love,
Down here or above,
And a navel that links us to all.

Written for the Limerick Challenge Week 19: Mother.