A mother holds her infant son,
And dreams of what he might become,
Content to, with her finger, trace
The lines and features of his face.
And as he grows, through window panes
She watches him, and call his name
Softly to herself and sees
All the things that he might be.
Every task that she performed,
All the sacrifice--and more,
Thinking no one knew she'd done
Still he knew of every one.
Every one he still recalled
And wondered at the joy in all
The time she spent to show him what
It means to know that you are loved.
And when he feels he's let her down
It pains him to remember how
She gently rocked his form to sleep,
Content to dream of who he'd be.
So moments when they disagree
Fly away so fleetingly,
And every day builds strong the love
For a Mother from above.
11 May 2008