I search for the words, in this poem I write,
Much more, I suppose, than the rest,
I find myself groping thru many a night,
For the words that relate my thoughts best.
For I’m writing of someone I love very much,
So much, that it may not sound real.
How often she’s given the warmth of her touch,
But how rarely I’ve said how I feel.
I know as I search, that I can’t really find,
The words that are worthy of her,
For someone like her just cannot be defined –
In the words that my mind might prefer.
At least I must try, and I hope that she’ll see,
All my feelings for her can’t be named,
I suppose that’s the way truly loving should be,
Just as paintings too good to be framed.
No matter what happens, or what I go through,
I know that she’ll be standing there,
And I hope that someday – I can find what to do,
To relate to her how much I care.
She still dries my tears, when things have gone bad,
And helps me to stand when I fall,
And somehow she senses when I’m feeling low,
And stops what she’s doing to call.
As a woman her beauty will go unsurpassed,
And she’s gifted with great understanding,
An award winning star in the role she’s been cast,
Though her role’s always been so demanding.
She’s everything I’ve ever wanted to be,
Always so gentle – yet strong.
She’s been such a beautiful mother to me,
No matter what ways I went wrong.
She’s full of forgiveness, her love doesn’t wilt,
She reminds me of each lovely dawn,
How often she’s tried to erase all my guilt –
And give me the strength to go on.
“This too, will pass”, she’d say with a smile –
And hide every trace of her fear.
If I were afraid, she’d be there all the while,
Reminding me, Mother is near.
There’s three of us, who feel as I do,
And I’m sure they won’t mind if I say,
Thru all of the dark spots, we’ve ever been through,
She’s been there to lighten the way.
I feel almost sorry, for those who won’t meet,
This woman I try to define.
Yet selfishly glad that the world can’t compete,
For the love of her children, is mine.
Though she loves the whole world, in one way or the other,
She’s always been sure to make clear –
More than anything else, she is always our mother,
And she holds her three children quite dear.
She’s been such a friend, so much fun to be near,
Her laughter has filled many days,
So much that she is, I could never make clear,
For I love her in too many ways.
September, 1972