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"For my mother, a farmer, at 80" by Heidi Annexstad She is my mother. I love her nonetheless, With the terse, ungrateful love of a child Who sees only the flaws she gave me And none of the virtues she kept for herself. The five-gallon buckets she carried to the calves, The bales she lifted, the numberless loaves she kneaded- Any one of these chores would break me. There is no weakness in her. There is only my father, dormant in a chair. She wakes him up to ask if he's asleep. I know just what she means by this: Don't die. I have seen her in tall grass, dropped down on her knees To feel the April crocus brush her cheek. The greening prairie rises, sufficient, and bears her. About the Author 
Heidi Annexstad lives with her fine husband and sons in Golden Valley, MN. She hasn't written a poem for years but finds that she now gets enough sleep at night to string words together during the day. She plans to use her economic stimulus check to fix the leaky faucets in her house.
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Bed of Roses Love Sonnet Contest Winner
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