To bear and to birth does
Not a mother make.
A mother wears the fruit of
Love on her heart.
She nurtures and builds.
She leaves them to nothing.
She builds hope,
Proves faith
Provides love.
Mothers use dry wit
And cunning
And clever means to Inspire.
All she has resides with her children,
A single day.
A week.
A month.
A year.
A lifetime.
All that she does benefits them,
All that she makes guards them.
She laughs with their joy,
enjoys their happiness,
Lives with their dreams.
And her heart breaks with their
Uncertainty.
Tears like blood
Turn storms to tenderness
As rain and growth.
She gives as if her very heart
Were theirs.
She holds them for every reason.
She plays with them,
She touches them.
She teaches them with
The most gifted wisdom
And the patience of fairies.
Her strength is theirs
even the faint and the strain.
Sickness and health are nothing
to her tireless wit and will
Infinite desires fill them
by her prayers limited only
by the width and breadth of the day and night.
She bless them by all she is.
They know
That her outstretched arms
Are made of sacrifice, safety,
Generosity and love.
Like flowers in spring.
The stars carry her light
And the wind her name
Together with the names
Of her charge,
And that, forever.
If even for a time
She was their face of love,
Completely,
And are now eternally hers.
Her children watch her
Faithfully, as do I.
She did not always birth them,
She always gives them life.
She wears her Lord's compassion,
and rests with Him
Who also gave her life.
To bear and to birth does
Not a mother make.
She tastes her instinct
Like the finest morsel.
And when they're with her
she surrounds them with it.
She smiles, cries,
Endures and perseveres.
She pines for her children jealously
and also gives them away.
She serves they serve her.
She gives and stands.
And I stand with her.
