My daughter whispered

To the Thinker statue in the hall.

He was her first and best friend.

Then she grew up

And got out

And left to think

For a Thinktank.

And the whispering ceased.

My son battled the ferocious

Kerosene Heater

With sword and shield.

His enemy at home, defeated.

Then he grew up

And lit out,

And left to join

True warrior ways

And the wargames stopped.

I taught them

To grow, to learn, to live,

To leave.

Mother, I understand now,

The hole

In your soul,

The longing.

Forgive me for leaving,

For growing up,

And going out,

And getting old.

I never knew the consequences.

By JB Morris- Poems, Prose, and Possibilities- mostly about life, sometimes about God, with brief interludes concerning shoe addiction.

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Kind Donations Appreciated. For publishing requests, contact juliebmorris@obscurewritings.com.

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