Mom drew flowers on metal trays before she birthed me,
Then in order Steve, Jo-Jo, Fred, Margaret, and last Carl at age forty.
Swapped oils for diapers; red roses and yellow daffodils for crazy us,
And when we all left her house, she again took up the brush.
Like her, we had kids and they had children too.
Seventeen to date, more on the way. Mom knew what to do.
She sketched arrangements, bouquets and corsages out of love;
Her gifts now light each home, while she paints for all, high above.