Mother

Her hair was worn up high,
When I was but a child.
I can see her eyes right now,
When she looked up and smiled.

I will always remember,
How she flourished the broom.
And swept off the pathway,
With the lilies in bloom.

She was a portrait in color,
Standing there on the stair.
Like a picture beholding,
So lovely and fair.

My love on her settled,
For my life was a part.
As she held an entanglement,
All round my heart.

I am...what I am,
She's a sculpturer no doubt.
For she molded and bent me,
In the way I turned out.

Her guidance and teaching,
Have seeped to my core.
She's the greatest of life's treasures,
Could I ask...for more.


E.P. 1908 - 1989