For Mother's Day

Art

You try to fold serenity into each layer,
smooth out the wrinkles,
turn under the frayed edges

Housekeeping,
so maligned an occupation
its art invisible

But feel the strokes across the wood,
smell the laundry,
taste the stew

Sculptor
of biscuit dough,
painter
of  tiny fingernails,
composer
of gentle songs to quiet tears

Who decides what art is worth?
Who decides what is art?