She wore her cotton purpled sash squares through each yard.
For I never saw a mother with such a discerning eye.
While the day withered from sunshine to bitter night.
For I never saw a mother feed the dead.
In her kitchen with each tool and recipe,
sweeping rounded pipes of potted meat
For I never saw a mother with such a piercing look
tumbling in and out of oven-soot.
Her humbled feet grounded by the gardens leaves,
just to sing a mumbled tune.
Ah- if that mother’s son could only breathe
For I never saw a mother feed the dead,
with such a discerning eye.
Krissy Mosley Ministries 
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