My mother is in heaven

 

In fact, she is a lot of things

A compiled list of complicated concepts

That force the world to know

She is an identity of her own

 

My mother is a flower

 

In more ways than just her name

A favorite regardless of nature

Plucked for her beauty

Pressed for preservation

She blossoms and she bends

And she gives herself away

 

My mother is an angel

 

In my sadness, we lie together

In my happiness, we laugh together

And when she touches my cheek

I’ll write about how she must be God

But more strikingly

 

How she is heaven