Reward for a Mother’s Love

That irksome man from Wobegon averred
“The sonnet is the finest gift for Mum!”
He swore, "Just pen some neat and heartfelt words,
‘twill offer up your love for years to come."

The twit has nerve. Such gents have nought but time
to ponder scheme and rhyme and pause because
they live like landed gentry. Some poor drudge I’m
sure launders shirts in Wobegon. The buzz

is that’s he fussy, checking spot and seams.
Anyway! Enough. What skinflint child would dare
equate her deathless (or so she dreams)
poetry to a mother’s lifelong care?

So happy Mother’s Day! Your sole tender
is my love and this poem’s inept splendor.


Just kidding about the shirts thing, Mr. Wobegon :-)

As a Shakespearean scholar (oops, I probably shouldn't admit that in case no one likes the sonnet!) I thought this was the perfect answer to being broke on Mother's Day. As a new mom myself, I'm often reduced to tears thinking how awful I've been to my mom over the years. Anyway, here is my sonnet which I just emailed to my mom.

Your finest meals snubbed for PB&J,

Still tired when you rise at break of day;

Through tears & smiles & tantrums and skinned

knees,

When all you wish for is one day of peace;

The dreams of travel to Guam or Tibet,

Now road trips and whines of “Are we there yet?”

The first one up and last to go to bed,

Try not to worry when you rest your head;

Devote your life to put the last one first,

And wear a brave face when you’re at your worst;

Give patience when there is none left to give,

A model of how one should try to live;

Though I make use of every weighty tome

The best of mothering I learned at home.

Thanks, Mr. Keillor, for keeping me from sending one more e-card and thinking it was enough.