mother

[Mwaba don]

edit #1:


My mother was a warrior,
wielding wooden spoons
like weapons of mass construction.
 
We four would tug on her apron,
tell her how pretty she was
so we could have more pancakes.
 
She would laugh and chase us
down the hall, a giantess
with crazy wood appendages.
 
Now she is simply small and fragile,
spoons at rest, hands clutching an afghan.
She naps in the heat of the day,

dreaming of her own warrior mother;
I pull the blanket over bony shoulders
and push silver hair behind her ear.



original:

I used to think of her
as being larger than life—   Cliche?
beautiful in her righteous anger, (what do you mean righteous anger? How do you relate someone being lager than life to having righteous anger.)
frightening with her quiet, resounding stares—
a warm, comforting shell

filled with cool, steely resolve.
She was so many different adjectives
and I could fill pages describing her.
Now she is simply small and fragile,
asleep on the couch with a thin afghan.

She naps in the heat of the day
and dreams of her own mother.
She smiles with her eyes closed   (Could you have said: she smiles with eyes closed as i pull the blanket over her bony shoulders.)
as I pull the blanket over bony shoulders, (Was the word her left out intentionally?)
push silver hair behind her ear.  (The ending sounds little sudden.. as if the poem was meant to go on.)