Mother

She is the flower of love’s fair
And the ship that brought us there.
She kisses the wounds on our knees
And calls us down from the tree.
She is warm apple ciders draught
After snow forts in an empty lot.
She is the tears that run down
When your choices introduce the ground.
She is the one who spelled fun
And showed us games under the sun.
She is a bent knee and clasped hands
And a whispered prayer to the Man.
She is the one who will cry on the day
Her training completes and you move away.
She is the hand of strength to little legs
Too weak to walk in those early days.
She is the song in a lullaby
And your home tell she dies.
Who has had such a friend as her?
Like your God given blessed mother.

by Ryan Wormald

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