A Room Beneath a Sky...

There is a room where she can go
The music there is soft and low
Like gentle raindrops on a breeze
A room of treasured memories

Here a new-born baby cries
With mother’s midnight lullabies
‘gainst cheeks so smooth and soft as silk
And warmth of baby oil and milk

Or childish lips, eager and red
Are asking, is it morning yet?
Before school buses could dictate
The meaning of early or late

She sees the dreams of a young bride
Align her gaze with time’s swift stride
As her once young and carefree lad
Begins to look a lot like dad

And daddy’s love begins to show
In silver etchings on his brow
The tears that once he held inside
He no longer tries to hide

There is a room where she can go
To let the tears and memories flow
The walls are lined with works of art
And held within a mother’s heart

Janet Martin~

My ten-year-old daughter still waves from the bus after she is seated…
This morning I’m not sure if she noticed that I had come out to the porch with my coffee
instead of remaining at my post inside the window. She was waving frantically, as was I, but I don’t think she saw me…and suddenly it became for me a picture of moments…
The fact that the glorious red, morning sky was the prelude to a very rainy Monday amplified my nostalgic frame of mind.