Mom

—Nick Butterfield

Mom
Is what hips hold a baby.
Love is a messy diaper.
Your mind, a vessel,
A ship afloat,
A vase of roses.
Mom
Is when a tooth is gone
A tear kept.
Now you wear short sleeve blouses.
Mom
Your legs walk a lonely road.
Your eyes think what they feel.
Thumbs that cannot grasp,
but only give.
Mom
To some, nature is God
To some, God is in Nature
To you it comes naturally.

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