The Heart Of A Mother

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.