Whistler's Mother

Whistler's mother,

neither angry, nor sad,

resolutely looks ahead,

pensive or a bit concerned,

lost in verdant clearings,

more frequently visited,

by forest dwellers,

strutting in sunbeams,

reveling in shade,

while Whistler's mother

holds a hanky,

worked of the finest lace.

 

Seated here for eternity,

primal dreams of a mother's son,

swathed in modulated color

reflecting his nuanced celebrity.

 

Never seductive as his peers,

Whistler pounded a nuanced nail

into our inferior foreheads,

upon which to hang this speculation,

in black, gray and white;

a mother is the holiest person alive.