My Mother's Book

My mother writes poetry. She has for years, though I never knew. She keeps her poems in a journal, Tucked safely away. She showed me the book once. I read all the poems in it. Things that I never thought twice about, She wrote about. Things I never thought she remembered, She wrote about. Things I did when I was two years old, She wrote about. It was beautiful. I had never seen her as creative before, I had never even liked poetry before. But her book, Tucked away in a drawer until that day, It brought me to tears.