Life ticks over in mundane ways
The ever repeating arguments
That take up half the day
The piles of things, wrappers, washing
laying in the way of peace;
Of pause without thought

Is a mother
Always twice the age
Of every other?
I see two years here, four there, feel ancient.

Actually ancient sounds good
Feels clean, honest, honed and wisdom worthy;

I am crumpled laundry faded with dust