Mother’s Day Poem

Motherly Symphony

With frail, scarred-tattered hands.
Feeding, cleaning, the feathery creatures.
Seeds drizzle on the cemented ground.
Long hair, cascading on to her shoulders.
Then pulled back into a simple bun.
Held together with a painted chopstick.
Simple pattern outfits, dusted with age.
Tells about the times when she glided on the runway.
Fractured English, falls from her mouth.
Never fails to muster a smile.
From her children, she holds dear.
Especially the era, of young kids.
Scattered on the beach.
Collecting seashells, preparing.
To be made into simple jewelry. 

— Bí