A Mother's Dreams

They think because I stay at home

And sweep and dust the floor,

never think of anything

Beyond the kitchen door.

They think me deaf to messages

Of wind in trees that bend,

But I think of many, many things,

While all I do is mend.

'Tis  true my body dwells at home

While dear old friendships call

The loving heart and soul of me,

Beyond these humble walls.

And so I sing and bake my bread,

And sew my patchwork seams,

And while I put my bread in pans,

My heart is light with dreams.

By Mary Quimby Sine

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