Mother's Clay

When I was a child, my home was not rich.
My clothes second hand and several with stitch.
My mothers poor mind was soon to unhitch.
And I too, was losing my way.

Faced with a challenge no one would request.
She saw her burden and viewed it as blessed.
And even when keeping her passion repressed.
She always knew just what to say.

Many would view her methods as mad.
She always made do with the little we had.
Her smile ever constant not slipping to sad.
Dark nights she would solemnly pray.

But no matter how bad things seemed to get.
There was always one thing, she’d never forget.
Some day she’ll know how much that it meant.
When we woke up on Christmas day.

She had us write down the things we desired.
We flocked her with pages of what we required.
She then set out, trying hard to acquire.
The toys that we wanted to play.

With little but none in her pocket to spend.
Our needs and our wants, together she’d blend.
The Santa illusion, till death she’d pretend.
Not once giving any secrets away.

On that hallowed morn at once we awoke.
To the peak of the twilight our minds did evoke,
a feeling so strong it could never be broke.
In our beds we just could not stay.

Through shivering hall to the tree we would race.
Where Santa had prized, and mom left no trace.
She needed not but the looks on our face.
Our smiles were more than adequate pay.

The lights on the tree shined and shimmered.
The fireplace flickered creating a glimmer.
Hearing the bubbles of stew as it simmered.
A feeling like everything would be okay.

I do not remember the things that I got.
The truth is alas, that they mattered not.
She carried this tradition, since I was a tot.
Shaping the world as if it were clay.

I hope that I can mold her clay into real.
And now our Christmas bond I will seal.
The message I give her to convey how I feel,
is this poem that I share here today.