I found this poem in April 2009 in my mother's box, stored in the attic.
I doubt very much it is an original, written by me.
I don't recall writing it and my handwriting seems to indicate I was 10 or 12 years old.
So, if you recognize it and know the author, let me know.
MOTHER
My mother's
face is clear as the sun,
Her eyes
like brown brook water.
Her hands
are cool as shadowy moss,
Her voice
is low with laughter.
My mother,
watching the talking trees
and the scud
of clouds on the sky,
Knows when
to hang our bright clothes out
For the morning
wind to dry.
She knows
when to plant her garden seeds,
and when
to gather apples
and wild
blueberries for hot sweet pies
and when
to expect dark dapples.
Of mud on
faces and hand, and scratches,
On children's
bare brown knees.
My mother's
weather vane is her heart
And the lean
of her dooryard trees.
