When ever I think of writing
Anything about my mother
I find the task overwhelming.
Some emotions are beyond expression.
How distant the memory of her feels.
Yet as fresh as rose petals
Washed in spring rain.
Her footsteps are soft
As she enters my heart,
Leaves a faint soft touch
And disappears
As unceremoniously
As it first appeared.
Alone I am left to recall her again
Or let it recede in sea of thoughts.
It is the color of her love
That never fades
It is the miracle of her love
That I pass on to my children.
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