She Is Our Mother

by thom amundsen

I remember once when I was a child

I skinned my left knee and mom called it mild.

There was a moment there when I wondered

when life was lucky when then I wandered.

I could run through fences, bouncing off walls

by night’s end her love would fix my pratfalls.

I remember with every scream, my tantrums

soft her eyes welled, her sweet patience, like strums

on chords of melody singing the blues.

I would today relish assured reviews

contained in her strength, drawn by her own love

that now gives comfort, surreal above.

Our lives are modeled as her heart welcomes;

Delight in our elegant beautiful Moms.

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