time chastens

ninety-four
a little stooped
yet I never heard
my mom complain
not once
no talk
of painful hands
or aching back
not in her lexicon—
buck up instead
no church
no faith
nor gratitude—
she shouldered on

I can’t deny
time’s humbling,
nor bear it all alone
instead, rely
on thankfulness
and friends
we share our woes
discomforts
and our joys
buck up be gone
solace and care
instead—
if only I could
have offered Mom
permission

2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.