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...