My mother was never very good to me,

but that’s not to say she was never kind to me.

 

I often think of her when the summer breeze turns to winter wind,

and how, in late September, I beg the breeze not to turn frigid;

 

But the breeze owes me nothing,

she’ll grow bitter at my pleading,

and once she holds her sword,

she throws herself at my window

to remind me of the strength she’s wielding.

 

I’ll meet her near the blinds

to thank her for her presence

and reminisce of the days

where she greeted me under the summer sun

with a gentle kiss.

 

My mother was never very good to me,

but that’s not to say

She was never kind to me.