My mother is a saint,
I’ve never heard her swear
and the only time I ever heard
her raise her voice,
she subdues it,
but with power.
Her sound carries like
rumbles on the train tracks.
She knows surely well that her
metal tires of words were meant to haul
dire advice I’d better take.
I still knew that the moments
I dared to test it all
and step in front of that train,
I’d regret it after
falling in the ditch from the top of the freight that
was going in the right direction all along.
My mother is a saint,
the word blessed is the pendulum
on her night stand and she breathes it unto others like clockwork;
her prayers are over-written grocery lists
of how to make the world a better place
for the people around her.
My mother is a saint,
she is tasked with a doctrine of careful planning
and phrases like,
“Finish what you began… for example, the laundry.”
“Learn the way through pressing forward,”
Or “Who we are comes from something much greater
than what we imagine.”
My mother is a saint,
but she also has a name
that comes with meaning.
I sit in my caboose and hope someday
I’d live up to at least half of it.
About the Creator
Ti Ana
Writing: surreal poetry, random thoughts, and more.
Insta: tianaishere
Wanna tell me something? Email [email protected]
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