Mother by Tristan Abbott

I remember your face.
The lines deeply sketched
By a man too proud to repent.
Each crease bought him justification.
He was never wrong.

An apron worn as a uniform
Sharp and as creased
But lacking a medal of honor.
You went unnoticed by him.
We all did.

Your life (if you had one)
Opened eyes already too bright.
A bird in a cage
May still joyfully whistle
But the songs are always of freedom.

You were my mother sometimes.
Nurture forgot itself
And nature hid behind a tree.
You had a purpose once
Then it became his own.

Now I sit and remember
You trapped in time.
Another grey memory
Of a life
My father refused to color in.