Mother

She's sitting in a rocking chair.
She's peeking out the window,
looking at the children playing, remembering her own.

She thinks back to baking bread for sandwiches,
putting bandages on skinned up knees,
singing lullabies, tucking the covers under chins so tight.

If she listens closely she can still hear the pitter patter of little feet,
laughter echoing through out the hall.
She lifts up her hand to feel her wet cheek where tears have fallen down.
All of her mothering seems to be in vain.

Grown daughters and sons are way too busy now.
Too busy to send cards, flowers,
or just pick up the phone.

Can't you see her tender heart breaking as she roll the chair away.
All of their needs put first and her needs thrown away.
One day it will be too late for their apologies, too late for the I love you.
No need to say it now when you should have done it now.