They Grew Accustomed......

They grew accustomed to her far-off gaze
Her sudden pause or mindless ways
If the sky’s wordless beauty left her in a daze
They reminded her, “Mom, you’re driving!”

They grew accustomed to poetry books on the table
Crumpled wads of paper and scribble
With trains of thoughts ending in dribble
While they reminded her, “Mom, we’re hungry!”

They grew accustomed to her drawn-out sigh
At over-grown creek beds or a half-moon sky
They no longer bother asking “why?”
They remind themselves, “Mom’s a poet”

All Rights Reserved
Janet Martin

Actually, I do not consider myself a poet....
not after reading truly great poetry,
I simply like to pen thoughts and rhyme words
The art of true poetry eludes me.....
but how pleasurable the quest in my journey