Mother.

The worries of the day cling to my mind.
Dallying children at play are they, ignoring their Mother's call to bed.

Many are the faces of my little worries.
The hot-tempered, cheeks a-flush, defiant fists clenched.
The moody, arms tightly crossed, eyes unsurrendered.
The whiney, full of pleading negotiations, empty.

Mother of mine, sweetly do you tend these.
With resolute patience, you calme and bed the terrors in me.

They may wake in the night, at morn I'm sure, at least.
But tomorrow Mother, we shall meet.
Though the day will storm, at dusk we'll greet.

As I recline, teach me your patience; your lullaby,
to send my mischiefs to sleep.