my mother died this year at eighty-eight

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my mother died this year at eighty-eight

this was not unexpected she was old

year after year had laid on her their freight

none of us were certain our words had no weight

all of our feelings open uncontrolled

my mother died this year at eighty-eight

her life was a true cycle and her fate

a journey ended where justly foretold

year after year had laid on her their freight

my only choice here is to celebrate

the tales of who she was and those she told

my mother died this year at eighty-eight

the wonder is we rise to the estate

of adult human but cannot say bold

year after year  had laid on her their freight

the tears well up the flow of them is great

but living folk must bear up under cold

my mother died this year at eighty-eight

year after year had laid on her their freight