Mother

​Soft hands pry open crooked doors to see
if she is still there beneath heaps of light.
Lost in time, stuck on a coffee stained word.
She moves over, so I can feel her heat.
When creaky floorboards squeak and windows flee
from dull latches, darkness sneaks in and bites.
Her soothing voice chirps-she is my songbird.
She combs my wet tangles, being discrete
to catch any drops before they run free.
​She's there when fragile things crumble and night 
time feels long; when innocence becomes blurred. 
Soft whispers to try to always stay sweet.
​You won't want my help when you grow older. 
I will - should have meant it when I told her.