The Storyteller

Her money vanishes into thin air
as more glass fills the household,
each holding a distinctive memory
valued in time that I did not know.
 
In them, I can see the shining patterns:
drafts of flowery trees, ripe with essence;
extending their glazed, flat-shaded blossoms
that thrive in a land that I do not know.
 
My place is a museum of history.
Alive, ancient faces and fragile swans,
telling me countless tales of virtue
in a growing world that I now do know.
 
Sometimes, I question why my mother
wants me burdened with knowledge so big
when she herself, survived on so little.
That, I will never know.