The Little Lunchbox

 A small tin box, its edges tightly bound,

Against the clang and grime that did surround.

A mother's care, within its metal kept,

A taste of home, where weary spirits slept.

No painted scenes, no playful figures bright,

But sturdy steel, to face the factory's light.

Inside, a piece of bread, perhaps some cheese,

A humble sustenance, to bring some ease.

The soot-stained fingers, reaching for the prize,

A moment's pause, beneath the smoky skies.

The rhythmic pounding, of the tireless mill,

Against this quiet comfort, standing still.

A boiled potato, maybe pickled fare,

A simple meal, to banish grim despair.

Packed in the dawn, before the whistle blew,

A silent promise, "I am thinking of you."

Though light in weight, a heavy love it bears,

A mother's heart, without pretense or snares.

Each midday meal, where "mother" softly flowers,

A love that blooms through all the passing hours.

The clatter loud, the gears in endless spin,

This little box, a world held within.

A memory of fields, of skies serene,

A mother's love, in what little could be seen.

The long day's labor, muscles strained and sore,

This metal friend, upon the dusty floor.

A fuel to keep the weary body going,

A whispered hope, in life's relentless flowing.

No fragrant spices, from a distant land,

But honest fare, prepared by loving hand.

To build the strength, for tasks that must be done,

Beneath the gaze of the unyielding sun.

A mother's love, no measure can define,

Within this small container, so divine.

An endless love, that gently finds its hold,

Life's returning rhythm, in stories to be told.

Little lunchbox, a secret you conceal,

Warmth-cooked fragments, of a life that's real.

Wet with the beating of a mother's heart,

Into each small portion, a brand new start.

The greenness, pain of sun-drenched, toiling days,

A lamp within the kitchen's hazy maze.

On mother's fingers, fire's pictures gleam,

Though grinding stone may hide a silent scream.

Unspoken tales, they linger in the air,

A silent plea for water, wood, and care.

The fire's rhythm, a weeping we don't hear,

As silent sacrifices draw ever near.

When chili's sting brings tears into her eyes,

Remember mother's deep, unspoken cries.

Learning to live where tears cannot be shown,

She cooks her love, in flavors widely known.

The fragrance rising, from spices ground with grace,

A culture's art, we often can't embrace.

As whitened rice and water blend as one,

A mother's science, expertly is done.

This isn't just cooking, it's a journey long,

Through walls of survival, where she's ever strong.

With steady hands, a rhythm never missed,

A daily routine, into poetry kissed.

The riveted tin, a symbol stark and plain,

Of working lives, enduring through the pain.

A mother's gift, in hardship's iron grip,

A fleeting taste, from weary, chapping lip.

And though the years have passed, the factories stand still,

This humble box, a story can instill.

Of human hearts, in industry's harsh sway,

And love's small victories, at the close of day