My Mother's Stories Poem by Sydney L

My mother sits knitting at the fire
The flames cast her face to the shadows
The click of her needles
And the chirp of the crickets
And the crackle of the fire
Make the most beautiful lullaby

I lay under the canopy of trees
With a patchwork of stars as my blanket
With a bed of pine needles as a pillow
And the rustle of leaves
And the roaming deer's cries
Wish me goodnight

I wait patiently for the moon to rise
So I can say hello to my friend
So mother can start her story
And then I will leave this ground
And I will leave this fire
When I go off on my adventure

The moon kisses my face
As she peeks through the canopy above
As the clicking of the needles
And the chirping of the crickets
And the crackling of the fire
Stop to hear my mother's tale

My mother began to speak then
She began to weave her yarn
She began the same way as always
'In a time like this but not, '
'In a place like this but not, '
'But under the same moon as us.'

My mother has a voice like the wind
Like the breeze in the morning
Like the storm in the evening
As warm as in spring
As cool as in fall
She can whisper just like it too

Her voice could be the whisper of lovers
As they hid from their peers
As they ran away in the night
Or the scream of a roc
Or the lull of the sea
It's a good voice for stories

My mother's voice took me away
On an adventure grand as ever
On a new voyage to new lands
To a land made of rock
To a land made of sand
And then back to our fire

She brought her tale to an end
It's always the saddest part
It's always a tragic feeling
Even if it was happy
Even if was grand
The fact that it ends is sad

She draws me back home
Back to our blanket of stars
Back to our pine needle bed
To the click of her needs
To the crackle of the fire
I'm home with my mother again.