I used to get excited for gifts, Simple, open, Every sentence was a string of ifs,
Put a new song on for a moment, I won't listen, Your smile, a generous bestowment,
I'll become an autumn leaf risen, Solace is spring, Loving lover; my healing tisane,
Then summed, your last melodies I wring, Their chimes and rhymes, Though internally I see them sing,
Through this ink and toil I see no times, The trees are her, My steps, lamentful sneaks, I see signs,
Hopeful remarks at what you once were, Then I gather, Pull up my memories, though they blur,
You were proud to be no one other, Me, your loved son, Crying glad, proud you were my mother.