Small house, smaller still when filled,
Warm kitchen, equally from the stove and ourselves,
Laughing, perhaps cackling, faces innocently instilled
With only a portion of Mom's shelves.
This must be what He had in mind
When His family reunions were set back,
But we celebrate the birth in kind,
And I will work to remain on track.
But she is mom to them.
I am a generation to late,
And my chances are slim
That my kids will relate.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem