Listlessly Ma sat rocking;
her ship of life was docking.
Ma laid down to sleep--
children don't weep.
Momma's don't keep.

Remember Ma snapping green beans
hanging them up to dry come snow?
Momma's don't keep.
She'd rake piles of leaves around
then jump, like us, sprawled in the mound . . .
before she laid down to sleep.
Children don't weep . . .
Momma's don't keep.

In the silent, still night
she eased away our frights.
Laying out clothes to go,
she knew it was time
when the moon beamed low.
Momma's don't keep.

Momma loved living in the past.
It was as if today was o'er.
Momma's don't keep.
As winter came, dumped its' snowfall
Momma crossed over this life's wall . . .
tenderly sleeping.
Children don't weep . . .
Momma's don't keep.

Little children, don't weep
she's just gone to sleep.
Like everything else . . .
obviously Momma's don't keep.

My mother, Laura Mae Conley, died at age 65 in Dayton, Ohio on June 25, 1983 (my late father's birthday).