A bit of a departure for this website, in that this poem is a) serious, b) for grown-ups and c) not in rhyme. But it seemed an appropriate one for Mother’s Day (here in the UK).
Sometimes, at night, I dance.
Dishcloth in hand, I glide across the kitchen floor,
Serenading a saucepan
Flirting with a frying pan
Waltzing with a whisk.
In the bubbled air I twirl and prance.
And then I stop.
Outside the window it is dark, the only audience my reflection.
I return to the sink, and watch
As the music drains away.