To a mother, friend, and compassionate host,

And the one her sons admire the most.

My Mother

Days exist to come and go,

Tides exist to ebb and flow,

Lands to stretch,

And Clouds to snow,

And Children all

Their love, to show.

And though they will grow,

A bright and festive life to sew,

They leave a place on their woolen sketch,

Up above, with them below,

There they leave, in gold, an etch

Of the one who gave them a chance to grow.

And long after the last whisper ends,

The tapestry encased; such beauty it defends!

A child will gaze upon that view,

And ask,"Is that someone you knew?"

"Why, she taught me well, much as I teach you,

For there you see my mother, and my greatest friend.

Your Loving Son,