Taking Up Poem by Christine Busta
Taking Up
I have inherited my mother's
walking stick.
Her life was harder than mine,
and yet she needed it
much later than I.
Now, when I support myself with it,
I grip once more the hand
that my stubborness
so often resisted
and hear her quiet voice:
'I have always known
that you'll never take good care
of yourself. You are
too much my daughter.
Come! Stand up straight! '
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/26/2024 6:45:13 AM # 1.0.0.1119
