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.