Mom

by Ruth Marie Brown

In a little run down cabin,
Far away from strife and pain,
Sits a dear, grey hair'd old lady,
Listing to a gentle rain.

She softly hums an ancient tune -
Forgot by all but a few.
And bends her head to hear the voice -
Of memories - not you.

Her eyes mist over, as she speaks -
"Yes, Tom, it's man and wife time,"
But Tom is gone and with him
All the joys that filled a lifetime.

She rocks, and talks of olden days
Of laughter, pain and sorrow
Of joys, and work, and all
That must be done afore the morrow.

Of cutting hay, and breaking colts
And hungry, bitter times.
Of tapping toes, and euchre games,
And welfare hand out lines.

She bends her head, breathes one last sigh.
Her glory days are over
She's gone to be with him, now,
Her long time, lifetime lover.