mother poem

do you think, my boy, when i put my arms around you
i sometimes wonder if it's really true
the darkness steals the forms of all the queens
no prey am i of poor thoughts
the little white prayers
why then, must we see?
he speaks not well
behold me, in my chiffon, gauze and tinsel
she heard the children playing in the sun
a flying word from here and there
beside a stricken field
there are gains for all our losses
royal feast was done
skies they were ashen and sober