Our mothers pass and we find
The unquestioning moment
In which the pulse of love seeks connection With the founding code of the heart.
Our hands claim the prize
That they bestowed on us,
Growing for them;
Returned, as they leave us
We touch their face
And read age.
Theirs was the beauty we chase.
Theirs is the place our life honours
Our blessed mothers
Shaping both the heart
And the face.
In the books our lives write
The mothers become the true authors.
Where now goes our story
If they can no longer read our next page?
David Erdos 28th March 2019