Dedicated to my amazing and brilliant Mom.

O thou, whose gentle hands first shaped the clay
Of this frail vessel breathing mortal air,
Whose voice, a silver thread in dawn’s first ray,
Dispelled the shadows of a world’s despair—
Thou art the hearth where all my winters warm,
The hidden spring that feeds the desert heart,
The steadfast star that guides through every storm,
The quiet strength that bids the soul take part.

Not marble monuments nor crowns of gold
Could match the silent labor of thy days:
The midnight watches, stories newly told,
The unseen mending of a thousand ways.
Thy love, like ancient rivers, deep and wide,
Flows on when all the fleeting empires fade.

Thou gav’st me roots that clutch the sacred earth
And wings to seek the heavens’ farthest dome;
In every triumph, in each quiet birth
Of thought or deed, thy spirit is my home.
Should ages crumble and the stars grow dim,
Still shall my grateful heart remember Him
Who lent thee to me for this little while—
My first, my last, my everlasting smile.

Mother, in thee true beauty finds its home,
And heaven’s quiet grace is fully known.