Mother’s Day we celebrate with much loving kindness.
So much that all are agog with enamored readiness.
Pulling, not legs, but heart strings and purse settings,
– made wide open for gifts to our birth-mothers’ being.
Mothers like transparent sapphires can also be translucent
as her presence is made pronounced by her nurturing scent.
She’s an iron lady, like the specks of shiny metals in stone.
Her anger though subdued can deepen to indigo,once shown.
Colorless to differing hues, mothers mimic them,
in gray, blue, green, – changing without mayhem.
Jewelry, she can be, that adorns.
Abrasive, she can be, when scorned.
Surprised you want her,on her many occasion of success
to double the joy for her so the moment she won’t miss.
But her intuition is made strong by experience
– your attempt will surprise you, not her sense.
Colored pale pink, mother is when she’s tickled no end.
Red, she can be, but will be called ruby at rainbow’s end.
Equalizer, she can choose to do.
Yet she’ll always love without ado.
Colorless is her judgement when love, in others, decline.
Yellowed are her memories of hurt, her heart won’t define.
The love in her heart even in darkness is devoid of lies.
Her love illuminates a sullen cry, tear falls, away it flies.