The Rhythm in Me My mother never wrote a book, No pen pressed deep into a page. But everything I've ever said Was shaped inside her gaze. She didn't study meter, rhyme, Or sit beneath poetic trees. She learned to speak through pots and pans, And pray with tired, aching knees. She didn't write but every word I carry now, she put in me. She moved with music all her own, Her hands, her voice, her recipe. She taught me how to stand back up Before I ever learned to fall. She showed me strength that doesn't shout And how to answer my call. She is the rhythm in my bones, The reason lines come when they do. And when I doubt what I can be, Her voice is what I answer to. I've seen her build with almost nothing, Feed a house from just one pan. She's proof you don't need ink or fame To raise a poet with her hands. If you feel my lines and think They cut with purpose, & pulse with grace, Just know they move the way they do Because she taught my heart its pace.