No one but a mother gathers memories, collectors
holding sons, treasuring daughters, never
letting her go from her heart, never letting
him leave completely to another; miles are
shortened by the smiles, as she remembers:
tantrums on the floor, kicking with tears
for a toy – turned sour by the tantrums
of missed curfew and the harsh words of
hate that were never meant. Sweet is the thought
of a daughter’s happiest day, tears screaming
in the heart for lost days and lost time together.
Proud is the thought of a son’s commission,
standing tall and proud in a uniform of blue,
tears screaming in the heart for that small
warm hand that clutched for safety and for you
No one but a mother sees the days go by, one day
after another, and when did she become a woman?
One day after another, and when did he become a man?
Forever, they will snooze and cuddle in her arms,
and the next day be there preventing her fall.
Never is there time, for time rolls on to time;
no one but a mother feels that sting of years
when children go away, when children find their way,
when children have their children, as the time
wends its way. But always in the heart of every mother,
there is care, and love, and bearing. Always and for
every mother, time never ends, and children’s lives
are hers. She gathers, she protects, she worries
and she prays. Always. Always. Always.
No one but a mother knows what Mary felt, one
day after another. Her tiny infant boy grew up, going on,
going on to hold the world. But her Child must
be gathered, must be protected, remembered,
suckling at her breast, cuddled in her lap, rounded
to the Way, tears when they runaway in whims,
because these children, these ones she loves – are Him!