Poem: A Mother's Love
O. Kris Widmer
Idea: in 2025 Written: September 15, 2026
When I was a boy
sick in bed
with a fever
my mother used to sit
on the edge of my bed
and feed me in my delirium
scraped apple
she would take half an apple
and scrape out its flesh
with a spoon
I would swallow the pulp
with hardly a chew - delicious,
so sweet and so cold.
all that would be left
would be the core
and the intact skin
I know what love is
for my mother
scraped apples for me
