Don'T Call Me Mother Hen - Again Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

I stood and watched
my daughter's birth.
A tuft of hair
salt of the earth.

To see it through
to its safe end
I prayed to you
asked you to bend
rules of devotion.

My smile was frozen
with high emotion
and I had chosen
you as my keeper
my hand to hold,

as now my beeper
so shrill and bold
called me away
to other chores
liquid dismay
oozed through my pores.

I held you then
today we're shy
called Mother Hen
and time goes by.