Wednesday, January 28, 2015




Emily Woodham

O Mother, my dear,
     I know math is waiting,
but have you considered this?
The weather is rotten
     as if it's forgotten
that the sun actually exists.

My fingers are freezing;
     my nose, painfully numb.
I simply cannot add or subtract!
What's that you say?
The heater's in play?
I seriously doubt that fact.

O Mother, sweet Mum,
     I must be done!
The table is far too wobbly:
It shakes when I erase 
     all these pencil mistakes.
There must be a better hobby!

I just find it queer
    to divide a number
so perfectly, absolutely intact.
Math is merely a ruse,
     a misshapen muse.
Can anyone doubt that fact?

O Mother, fair Mater,
I wish you'd understand
     all that I'm trying to tell.
The afternoon is waning,
    and math is so paining.
Surely this won't end well.

Perhaps we should skip it,
     just toss it aside,
not forever, but just for today?
Let's sip hot tea
     with cookies (Oh, please!)
and stories of far, far away.

©2015 Emily Woodham

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