My Single Mother
Like the willow she stands alone, swaying. Looking at winter months, she mourns for Spring beauty, aged by the children who used to swing upon her branches. As they grew, they strayed. Now she only moves when memory's wind whispers, where she can not hide her weeping.
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Other stories by Johnny Dantonio
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Soft, beautiful, sad. The mother as tree, the tree as mother. Very good poem
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Hey Susan! Thanks so much for your feedback and compliments. Starting to read into your stuff as we speak :)