Poetry was made for mothers,
scribbling stanzas in stolen moments
during bath time,
defenseless against sudsy splashes,
or silently and by nightlight
after her child succumbs to sleep.
Long works of prose demand rooms of one’s own,
but rooms shared with baby dolls
can be the birthplace of verse.
Her efforts to tidy will be undone
like a sandcastle by the rising tide,
but poems, once penned, will last forever.
Her most celebrated culinary feat
may be smearing peanut butter on toast,
but through poetry she displays her ingenuity.
Among the many hats a mother wears,
there is room for a crown of laurel.
~ Little Charlotte ~ Courtesy Nicolette Hylan-King ~