Her youngest plays marimba songs
like the Star Wars cantina,
has lots of friends, and acts in plays
though he is just sixteen-a.
Her oldest is the sweetest wife
that you have ever seen-a,
edits books and always cooks
despite hectic routine-as.
Her middle child has dino bones
once under a patina
of dust and rock-- but now they smell
good as lemon verbena.
Her younger daughter soon will leave
to speak like a latina
and share the gospel in Salt Lake
with those from Argentina.
The final son is trying to
decide his course between-a
several labs in which to do
work for his PhD-a.
All five of these her stars wish we
could hear her concertina,
then give our heartfelt thanks to her:
the mother we call . . . Mom!
Happy Mother's Day!
For the holiday, I also recommend Ted Kooser's poem Mother, featured a week ago on NPR's Writer's Almanac.