Monday nights too my mother sat alone
and put her head in her hands,
then wilted like a fall flower
from the stress of life made her decay,
No one ever asked if she was alright.

I'd wake to empty call for love, warmth.
When the room was cold, she would wither,
and slowly I would join her to sit,
Letting her spill the chronic sadness she felt,

Speaking softly to her,
I tried to water her flower,
And told her that her daughter was always there.
Oh how I relate, how I understand the wilted garden of her soul.
She now knows the love a daughter has for her mother.
Her flowers have perked, the room is no longer cold,
For her rose is slowly blooming again.