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Sonnet To My Mother

Rating: 3.0

Most near, most dear, most loved, and most far,
Under the huge window where I often found her
Sitting as huge as Asia, seismic with laughter,
Gin and chicken helpless in her Irish hand,
Irresistible as Rabelais but most tender for
The lame dogs and hurt birds that surround her,—
She is a procession no one can follow after
But be like a little dog following a brass band.
She will not glance up at the bomber or condescend
To drop her gin and scuttle to a cellar,

But lean on the mahogany table like a mountain
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COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Britte Ninad 26 August 2018

so heart touching and loving SONNET to mother

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