I have held baby birds and tire swings. Watched the young grow and gain their wings.

My fruit has been picked and seeds eaten too. Still, I have flowered every year, just for you.

While I stand still and sometimes clinging to life, I remained standing strongly above as he made you his wife.

I grow branches strong and low to the ground, so the little faces of explorers do not wear a frown.

Some refuse to see or acknowledge I am there, while some care for me attentively, simply for a pear.

For years I have stood, in this very spot, hoping for a chance to be something I am not.

A playground or even a simple swing, maybe a clubhouse made with wood they bring.

My canopy is always a shaded place for you to come, or maybe a base for a game of tag, no one has ever won.

As I age and with each passing storm, I die a little inside, waiting for spring to be reborn.

The cold weather comes, and I let it all go. Finally to rest, blanketed in snow.

Quite overcomes the places they play, and I miss them dearly with each passing day.

The rope swing is empty, with no joy to bring, and oh how dearly, I long for the birds to sing.

The energy inside me, circles with angst, but for the rest, I should give thanks.

Soon the time will come for the play to begin and my leaves will soon grow green again.

My flowers will bloom for the bees to play and I will soon have the fruit to repay.

As my feet grow warm, the sun shines bright. I still hold on to the swing with all my might.

The bugs begin to crawl and squirrels frolic with ease, and soon enough I will be blamed for your sneeze.

I push out the green leaves of May, with the water from the April showers that still feed me today.

The birds sing and nest for the new, the bugs drink from the morning dew.

The kids I love have grown so tall, much like me, they have enjoyed the thaw.

Smiles and laughter fill the empty space, and the old swing is lovingly replaced.

My strength is warranted for the children’s growth, and this is the age I admit I love the most.

Generations have past and children have grown, but the age of innocence is clearly shown.

They swing with laughter and eat leaving a mess, but the love that is shared is simply the best.

Their mother, once a child, I love to this day. I only see once in a while, which saddens me to say.

Pears for the family or work to be done. She seems to have forgotten our seasons of fun.

These children will grow and soon leave too. Not to be seen, with far too much to do.

The silence is eerie and I wait with grace, for them to bring their children to this once so loved place.

A newborn wrapped tightly, while their father picks pears. My love for them both is obviously there.

I watch in awe at her very first steps, as her mother sits in the shade for a much-needed rest.

A hug from a little one, soon to call me friend. I already long for the summer days that I hate to see end.

I feed on the laughter and love to be found, much more than I feed on things from the ground.

My love is forever and one day you will see, this place will feel far too empty without me.

  • The Un-Traditional Mother

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