Poetry – Page 2

Abecedarian to My Mother by Baylee Sidden


Mother. A word of so few letters and so many
meanings, like how my mother is a tempest,
never ceasing to blow and blow until
nothing is left.
Or perhaps, she blows until
only that worth keeping still stands.
Passionately placid eyes like an ice-
pick that slice through bone and marrow, cutting to the
quick, but only for those who truly deserve it. No, you can't 
quit, is her motto for life, working day and night until she has to
rest, but never by choice. Just keep on keeping on at an insurmountable
rate until the hurricane crashes to the shore, and the skies turn blue once more.