Taking Up - Poem by Christine Busta
I have inherited my mother's
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! '
Comments about Taking Up by Christine Busta
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You