Mothers are front porch rockers
a string of pearls
and warm cookie dough in counter mixers.

Mothers are window box geraniums
sand on your toes
and gardenias that bloom in May without fail.

Mothers are gingham curtains
crooked country houses
and glass chandeliers with a missing light.

Mothers are summer fireflies
a sagging hammock in two old trees
and flannel sheets when the snow falls.

Mothers are kind
like the smell of coffee
whose scent I want to be.