My mother, a tome of verse, not garbed in the gossamer of glib similes
Nor the common cloth of crude metaphors,
But enrobed in the rich tapestry of tumultuous times,
Both tempest-tossed and tender.

She, a diaphanous dawn,
Selflessly scatters her essence,
Melding into the mosaic of our mirth,
A sacrifice, silent and sterling.

Unto me, she expands—an endless expanse,
A vault celestial, cradling my dreams with delicate care,
Bestowing upon me wings wrought of whimsy,
A haven for my heart's thunder,
A navigator through my soul's squalls.

An ocean infinite, her depths embrace
The undulating urgencies of our existence,
Stalwart, she stands against the storm's surge,
A bastion against the bluster and the blast.

Her years, a loom on which is woven
Each slender sliver of erstwhile epochs,
A present painted with pride,
Memories melded into a magnificent mural.

Her visage, a moon’s mercy,
Mellows the murk that mires,
Her aura, ablaze with a myriad suns,
Drawn from urns overflowing with
Love, compassion, kindness, empathy, benevolence.

A celestial serenade, she is
The melody amidst the mute,
My raison d'être in a realm of fleeting fata morganas,
My oasis of everlasting equanimity

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© Aylin