Dear Autumn, Be Gentle With Mothers

Others cannot see the colors

Where years have seared priceless art

Nor do they know of the autumn

Of a middle-aged mother’s heart

Beneath her skin seasons linger

Where children slipped from Her care

Caught between summer and winter

She learns new reasons for prayer

These are no common arrangements

Scattered like leaves on lost yards

Meekly she bears the estrangements

That comes with changing of Guards

Longing is a two-edged saber

Gratefulness cushions its thrust

Without it middle-aged mothers

Would not have wherewithal to trust

Dear autumn, be gentle with mothers

She senses a chill in your stare

Help her to shoulder the colors

Leading to snow-silvered hair

© Janet Martin