Son To Mother
Since the day I was conceived, her delicate hands have held me.
Since the day I was created, her hands floated my first endeavor.
At the point when the tears started to rain, her hands covered me.
She has made it a priority to facilitate protecting her treasure.
She was ecstatic to curl and smooth my classic hair Sweep.
Her hands sufficed, and my scars were concealed.
She drew me closer to the star with her soft, steep.
When I finally got her, she hugged me and, by God, she cheered.
I'm glad that she wasn't hurting me when she was playing.
She seldom uses her hands to form and twist trees.
Her hands would embrace the focuses she was making,
Presumably, I'm related to her and depending on her strands.
Time has effectively weighed intensely on her side.
The radical strive of lifting her hands spurs her soreness.
I've never seen such a shocking model of heart inside.
She is my initial stage where foments all my crudeness.
Who taught Love that the most prized asset is the heart.
An exquisite family has blessed us to call it our own.
They remember us for who we are, not for what I've put in the cart.
She enjoys being a mother regardless of our faults and groans.
ALL YOURS (Jun 15) Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
Written; May 7, 2021
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