Invisible Cords

What is it in a mother

That we so long desire

Must be the touch, the care

The gentle strokes when they brush our hair

With the same fingers that held

The soft, small head

Of their infants in the crib.

When does a mother think of her time

When every passing moment 

The cord that was cut 

Still lingers and connects

They feel a tug

Whenever we are bugged.

Why is it most mothers

Make stories in the air

They color it with hope and share

And let the wind carry them

With so much grace and flare

They burn like fireflies 

Oh, that sight we hold dear.

How do our mothers

Carry loads with finesse 

The curves in their backs 

That jolt a thunder when they snap

How is it they still pause

And carry us through the doors

To the sweet respite of our homes.

Invisible cords.