Sing to Me, Mama

Sing to me, Mama
Sing, sing a song
of high in the tree top
as we swing on the porch
of how the cradle will rock.
Sing to me, Mama
of butterflies and flowers,
kittens and pups,
of what it will be like
when I'm grown up.
Sing of rain on the rooftop,
hay in the barn,
of guardian angels
who keep us from harm.
Sing with that look and
a tear in your eye,
of a land far away,
where the soul never dies.

Now the swing hangs still
till touched by the wind,
at that house on the hill
where no one lives.
When did the bough break?
I've fallen so far
I can't go home
Home to the house,
to the swing on the porch.
Hold me tight, Mama,
Don't let me fall.
Sing to me, Mama.
Please sing again.

--April 23, 1998
(Two years after her death)
Copyright © 1998-2004 Brenda S. Parris

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