sonnet object poem

 The Old Brown Mugs

 

Mom Peters’ mugs, upon my shelf so high,

Ceramic, old, and different shades of brown,

Inciting images from days gone by

Of driving over mountains to her town.

 

I drove from Colorado to Cheyenne,

Five hundred miles with two kids there in back.  

We got there before bedtime, by the plan.

When we got in, all tired, we’d have a snack.

 

When done, the kids would scamper down the hall

And open the small closet full of toys.

And there they would proceed to have a ball,

While Mom and I would talk despite the noise.

 

She’d fill those old, brown cups with steaming tea,

And tell me tales of when she was a child,

The time she got in trouble as a teen,

 She sent her horse back home across the wild.

 

My mother-in-law was the very best.

The mugs remind me, we were greatly blessed.