Wishing I Could Do More, I Write A Sonnet

My mother looks as though she fought ten rounds -
The pavement bopped her worse than could Ali.
She's healing but a bruise nearly surrounds
Her mouth, all due to my wicked Collie,
Who took her down like those sneaky X-Wings
Did the Imperial Walker there on Hoth.
She shrugs and keeps on helping pack my things,
For nothing but some love and jam and broth.
A continent away, un hombre por
Quien mi terneza acrecenta
Is down and ill with flu; I can no more
Cure him than I can wipe out all of the
Wounds on my mother's face. All I can say
To either is, te quiero, every day.