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