Just this

Mother, snap out of your lethargy
and hold hands with this poem.
I anticipate your home-coming;
do not return without songs
in your mouth.
There are many empty cottages
in a sullen sky
for grief to rest on a treeline.
Do not marvel at this:
strange plants grow
in a barren garden.
Mother, do not bottle up your woes.
Mask your body with smiles
meant to heal –
a wild smile for forlornness.
It’s easy to walk a deficient distance
in the heat of the moment;
obey this poem, nothing more.