กลอนวันแม่

Mothers are the gardeners
Of wind-blown wild flowers.
They water them with happy tears,
Happy with them many years,
Even as the hours
Ring with sweet, sad melodies
Sighing through their bowers.

Mothers are the place that we call home.
On them we rest our heads and close our eyes.
There’s no one else who grants the same soft peace,
Happiness, contentment, sweet release,
Erasing nighttime tears with lullabies,
Restoring the bright sun that makes us bloom.

Mothers are the place where love
Emerges from the earth,
And happiness rings out like bells
In honor of our birth.

Mothers are the sun that lights
For life our inner sky,
So we may know that we are loved
And need not question why.

Mothers are the moon that shines
Upon our black despair,
So even when we weep, we know
That someone’s always there.

Whatever fear, or stress, or pain
Might them to anger move,
We know that underneath the storm
We have, always, their love.

Mothers aren’t mothers right away,
Of course. They need some time to undergo
The long and well-wrought windings of the way,
However steep, that choice and fate bestow.
Even with the passion to endure,
Reminded of sweet memories to come,
‘Tis time’s brutal way to be unsure,
Severing the addends from the sum.
Do, then, make your way into the void
Afoot with expectation unalloyed,
Yearning yet to be what you’ve become.

Mothers find their happiness in seeing
Others happy. Is this good or wise?
To hang one’s happiness upon a being,
However loved, who sees through other eyes?
Even as such love may be a burden,
Remember well what lies behind the curtain,
Singing down through angel-freighted skies.

Mothers have eyes in the backs of our heads.
Over all our thoughts there hangs a moon.
The womb of our creator sends its light
Heavenward, to brood upon our night,
Essence of love distilled into a tune,
Rising with a kiss above our beds.

Mothers make the memories
Underneath the memories:
Morning’s undertow.

Mothers rarely get what they deserve:
On them is dumped the dirt of our dreams.
Their joys must be ours, as they serve
Hard time, which only our love redeems.
Each day your love and faith my days renew;
Rejoice, then, on this day reserved for you.

Mothers sometimes find themselves marooned

Souls left to survive all on their own.

Mum has six kids, works hard all day
Undoing the damage of time, wind, and clay,
Makes the whole world want to stop, sigh, and stay.