I write awkward and unfinished poetry. First-draft style.
His Mother
He wiggles and squirms and coos with delight
And copies all that he can within sight.
Bigger tomorrow he’ll be, and do more
Soon he’ll be eighteen and walk out our door.
For now he’s our baby and always I know
He’ll stay my sweet baby until and although
He’ll have to choose a life all his own.
Mother I am and his mother I’ll be
I know he could never forget me
(I am the field from which he was sewn).
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