THE MOTHER

Artist

Her sketches were my paper dolls
Her music my lullaby
I swallowed her songs and stories
Like sweet sips of dew
Tasted the round rich words
And took them for my own
Her poems went unwritten
As she listened to mine
"Watch!" I said
And twirled and spun
And the dancer sat still
And smiled

Some artists create by
Being
Their works are not tangible
For who can hold wisdom?
Who can touch joy?
What arpeggios ever reached
The sound of love?

Her medium is giving
Her canvas is care
A sculptor without clay
Molding memories
Shaping hopes
Enriching the world around her
With the joy that is herself
Minstrel of harmony
Dancer of dreams
Woman...
Mother...

Artist...
Of life

©Edwina Peterson Cross