How long before her milk runs cold to touch? How strong the squall that quiets flowing founts? And bitter babe's intolerant lips clutch Upon this mother's weathered shape, she counts The sheep of valley bright, breath wuthering Across the night. Haboob's soot can one choke Upon, still, desiccated mothering Leaves something to desire: the babe too croaks. Perhaps, the temperature lacked false warmth, Her temperance inside derived from cold, For numbing lactose grows endurance north, And feeds intolerance to turning old. Just stay to hum sweet melodies tonight, And feign responsibility in blight.
Oh, My Word! Olivia would love to hear from you after reading this poem. Leave a comment below!
Oh, My Word! is a weekly updated blog featuring fiction, poetry, drama, and essays for the world. #OhMyWordWednesday
Hit “Like” if you enjoyed the post, and don’t forget to subscribe!