Of A Mother's Heart

A mother’s heart is filled with words

That ink can never form

An ocean tossed, a cradle, soft

A pillar in love’s storm

A mother’s heart is full of art

That brush could never read

A corridor of sacred scars

Where rawest splendors bleed

A mother’s heart is squeezed and torn

Where hands can never reach

It bows low-small yet stands full-tall

Where love must learn and teach

A mother’s heart is flesh and blood

And yet a longing stair

Up to the One who hears the groan

Where love is stripped and bare

A mother’s heart is soft as silk

Yet firm, unshakeable

Methinks a mother’s heart must be

A sort of miracle

© Janet Martin