When I am soon reminded by my thoughts that scan the skies, and carousel between the stars that look upon me,
As if I were just small - but not alone,
I swamp around in recollections, here and there, that skip to take their stage,
Upon and een within the lighted head-sight of a story nere forgot, but not untold.
On Mother’s day, a day that is for her-beings, - If mother of a child or other life that begged a love,
I cannot feel but know that I am fortunate moreover than all gold would ever bless,
My heart a knowing of the wrenching that a loving asks, my spirit all but spent in earnest giving,
My soul-face smiling, lined to character by recognising,
I am somehow whole - this odd content.
