Delicate, the countenance of mother,
her abiding grace and loving hand
the nurture of life’s endowment,
and as we through time afford a sagacious will,
why do we so turn from her,
our all, our place of being,
out tender breath instilled.
With open eyes I see what she has done,
and miracles each moment of her elegant thoughts,
yet austere she may appear at times,
in balance does she propagate
and illuminate our fears,
to that of our own design,
what we in our selfishness resign.
Oh Mother, you are so fair,
for no intent clouds your will,
just the balance to in life fulfil,
and to honour the struggle that existence demands,
and to show the simplicity of your commands,
to be taken to heart,
and lived in blissful harmony.
I sit upon your desolate shores,
listen to the gentle lapping of tides,
and watch that golden orb, fall then rise,
and never can I question your sweet rhymes,
as they drift in harmonies ill-defined,
of afferent lilting dreams,
each one the very notes of your opus.
Tony DeLorger © 2016