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A childhood cradled in a mother’s arms. 
Like a sunrise aglow with hope and promise,
Nudging us to awake, our spirit charms. 
Bringing life from soil previously tarnished. 

A mother’s love is a light from above. 
Truth like nothing else the mind can think of.  

A love to cause pause with a look in her eyes. 
Pretty but not fierce was a mistake to assume. 
Kindness is not weakness some fail to recognize. 

She was most fierce when her sons were blamed. 
Unfortunately her sons were at fault.  
Didn’t matter, she was not to be tamed. 
For those boys were as pure as table salt.

Unconditional love on display.  Not on occasion but every day. 
Every day. 

She turned Christmas into the incarnation. 
Gave me a time machine that I use today. 
Transporting me to the eve of expectation. 
When boys think tomorrow is a better day. 

Holidays were times where hope was renewed. 
The table set for sharing more than food. 
More than food. 

Gifts were wrapped with great care and precision.
A lot like that gift sent from Bethlehem. 
Cultivating peace was the shared vision. 
Gifts of love by the hands that prepared them. 

Hands that never failed to unveil
That you’re worth tending to every detail. 
Every detail.  

Those same hands look different as of late. 
From those playing jacks on the kitchen floor. 
But they love the same as when I was eight. 
Wouldn’t mind at this age playing once more. 

An eternal blessing that has a debt. 
That those so blessed would simply not forget. 
We will not forget. 

We remember the spring from which we’re fed. 
Though our ambition and purpose gets swirled. 
We grow toward that light previously shed.  
For that light will change the world. 
Change the world. 

Mom was born alive in spite of attempts. 
Like a rose bush removed from the garden. 
But a greater plan for her was meant. 
To bloom anyway right where she started.

Her father missed out knowing this daughter. 
Her tears transformed into holy water. 
Holy water. 

Feeding roots of the next generation. 
With prayers unending to heavens applause. 
Anticipating the promised transfiguration. 
Giving you and me cause to stop and pause. 
Stop and pause. 

To pause amidst uncertainty and pain. 
And know you are blessed and blossom again. 
Blossom again. 

Like the first rose promising more to come,
From soil thought to have hardened. 
Nine know their father as one of her sons. 
And ten more now bloom in the rose garden. 

The landscape of time bloom with gifts above. 
Knowing each rose is a triumph of love. 
A triumph of love. 

Every day,
More than food. 
Every detail. 
We will not forget
To change the world
With Holy water. 
So, stop and pause and
blossom again,
as a triumph of love. 

A triumph of love.
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