My Mother Is

a lioness, terrible in battle,

velvet pawed to her cubs (love’s claws keep quiet

then), but when needed she is sharp and quick.

My mother is the train whistle in the

night, the light that lets us sleep, the constant

one. My mother is Christmas glow and Easter

candy and breakfast warmth and library

books and hidden nooks with secrets. She is

the way-finder, the story-teller, the

magician, the pain-healer, the friend. When

she laughs, all’s bright. Her tears dim the sun. My

mother is the stitching in the fabric

of our lives—four books in God’s library,

she the index volume: gilded, loved, and beautiful.

Copyright © 2002-08 Abigail Hilton