No desire for her to call
Or show belated care
Or to proclaim she’d been a fool
For never being there
Yet, I too bore the precious shoots
That grew from passion lit
And felt maternal love acute
That no time could omit
Unpalatable questions
Arose from all I had
Inadequate suggestions
Impaired my view a tad
Aware of need to nurture
My own elective offspring
However hard I searched her
All I saw in her was nothing
Though years of snow did linger
The imprint would remain
And clean rain failed to hinder
That wretched muddy stain
Recurrently dreamt mother
Would one day pen a line
Plead sorrow for the other
Who wasn’t really mine
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