Mama

She owns the world, with a paint brush

Of words

Which caress lifes’ obstacles with an overpowering;

‘It is well.’

 

October, November which bring rainy days,

She picks out the lilac to frame the grey

and rain purple rain

So the roads, with confetti celebrate our way.

 

She speaks in metaphors of a brighter tomorrow

for those who do right,

for rewards for toil.

She plants seeds, winged or bulbs,

And brings to life fruit and flowers.

In mud,

She rears rainbows, from the short rain showers.

 

She loves endlessly,

boundlessly, colour blind.

She is free

to see good in any place

That anyone could find.

 

I am half her, she gave life to me,

And for that,

I am grateful eternally.