My mother's face
That simple line
conjures an image packed with tears
and with a fragrance
that stirs my soul
My mother's face
has looked upon me
with fat cheeks and giggles
and said this is my daughter
My mother's face
has sweat, as she wipes her brow
pausing after trudging the tiller through
old-rusty-green-with-missing-paint-speckled tiller
busting through the hard caked mud of the garden
My mother's face
has filled with the angst of a life that had to be
and the joy she wanted to be
in a place that had to be
A place somehow not her home
yet. . . then.
My mother's face
has been
closed tight in prayer
over me
my life
my problems not her own
but somehow hers too
My mother's face
carries wrinkles now
that it never did before
My mother's face mirrors my own
and yet somehow mirrors God's
shines glory out
more than any face I've known.
